February rains on my summer dreams but atleast I'm wearing my favorite sweater.
I like to think that the little bird outside my window was sent by a happy prince,
because there's a future I don't want to face.
The red leaves are wearing the rain drops, like a pearl necklace.
So I write with a half burnt pencil;
that a daydreamer can get hurt and lost and hurt again.
I plan to run away from the future, till it plans to seek revenge, to bring everything I never wanted and nothing that I forever wanted; cut the flower from it's stem,
and it starts running after me....
After the guilty pleasure of doing nothing, I worry about my lost potential, and console myself with the hope of a tomorrow and the changes it will bring in me.
Hoping against hope.
So I bought myself a moon lamp.
I will never use it to read;
I'll make the walls stop glowing and admire the lamp glow in different colours, endlessly.
(I do get scared when it turns red though,
do I still want black to my happy colour?)
... it's the authenticity of it not being the actual celestial I can find outside.
But it's cold outside, because it's February.
February rains on my summer dreams.
YOU ARE READING
Ethereal
PuisiEthereal is a poetry book. It is a poet's benevolent prattle about growing up, attaining maturity, embracing delicacy, moving on and it's what you find when you finish walking on your path of self discovery...for now.
