the tranquility, in the spontaneous overflow of thoughts recollected in tranquility, could, as crazy as it sounds, be replaced with a bus on an indian road.
you enter, cleaving through the bustle & take a pink ticket towards attaining that sacred asana.
to avoid any accusations from the girl on the left, you bend that knee like a frog, then keep balance on your toes with the other foot to avoid the old man hanging-on behind you.
hands smell of old paint & the air is 1:1 with oxygen and sweat, yet, you are a sponge, absorbing, more so than on some stifling cave on some ancient mountain.
~Ajay
28/7/19
W
inner of Harper Collins Yoga Mythology Contest
YOU ARE READING
bliss station ~ poetry
Poetry~ where is your bliss station / you have to try to find it ~
