The radiant blue wall…
Pampered, cared but not used…
the empty vessle on wooden table howling for some solid substances,
In a rained evening with the memories
that are long walked by the shore.
And the footprints are infinite and full of broken people who are never tried and never escaped.
I am here making a box of words to keep my carcasses as my offsprings
but the limitations of a man who drinks and drives and gives teeth to women can never be ignored.
The letter comes and they say I can never be a published writer…
well that’s the last thing a caterpillar does to scatter the juices with in.

There should be a wind on the way and it should take this bone china bowl of empty lagoon with it’s turbulence.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Ansel Easton Adams.

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