Cold & lonely, the wind plays against my skin. It licks the damp foliage of my lips, It takes my breath away. Who dreams of a flower that has drunk beauty in the anguished bruise spilling all over its petals? These are perennials, dying hints of harmattan rustling under their worn boots. Wait a bit for the children to gather bit by bit the bitter ends of today; Hear them complain. All the different bells have faltered into silence; mothers will sleepless tonight as rain knocks & taps; sleepwalking its riverine way into my dreams.
I still dream of places that remain the same. Places that will age with me until their stories become my stories and they become players in my make belief.