Perched atop the water tank
I see myself
reading the advesperating sky.
The Sun is an
epic prose
A novel whose
closing pages
Paves way for
lunar poetry.
Gently appearing
sidereal companions
Help the moon
bedeck the firmament
With fluorescing
nocturnal rhymes.
The lyric of the
breeze
Gently buffets the
homing birds
As they arc their
way nest-wards.
At the other end
of the horizon,
Roving cloud
mail-men
Drop pluvious
letters of love
As sky’s telluric
lover
The earth laps up
the romantic missives
And reads it with
fragrance.
A few forgotten
sentences
Find themselves
suspended mid-way.
But connive with
the
Crimson chapters
of the novel
To concoct one
final act of play.
The arched heptad
of characters
Illuminate the
bibliotheque
With a mystical
drama,
The darkening
cerulean Vista
Pans out in full
glory
Best seen in
solitudinous recumbence.
The sky is a
celestial library
Craving for more
bookworms.
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