Today, flock of pigeons were attempting draw
circles below the skies. Impressive. Though what
captured my senses were a pair moving elsespot.
My rising in a moment as this is a simple synonym
of overwhelmness in middle of a still life. The art
of feeling joy in an early noon takes me to a wilderness.
The algorithms of it beginning from me. It is not godly
I feel but all of the povertyness of my unknowings
morphing into something that has long eluded civilization.
In a deep edge of me, outrages my loneliness. Bemoans
of it as a closed subway. Since I’ve stayed unfounded
long before time translated into mundaneness. I am
often looked like rain falling in wild rivers. My stretches
beyond me open themselves onto a measureless beauty.
How I flourish as a stranger to me. In an orbitless path
foreshadow of freeze, garlands the momentum I fostered,
schooled to the noisy flutter of fringed wings. How their
unfold is something between effort and the grief of weight
on them. That is nothing but the small signs of compromises
to continue the war of survival and the cache of blues.

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