by Sneha Subramanian Kanta
I.
The
moon glistens,
rows of little houses,
of windows and matchbox
consistencies speckle long streets.
I walk where the black bird flaps
its wings vigorously at noon,
replaced by sounds — of
autumn leaves,
dry.
II.
The
blood jet amorphic
liquid of creation laughs at
I; the lone midnight traveller,
only howls of stray dogs and
gushing winds approach
and disappear, like
safety.
III.
Artificial
consumerist neon
streetlamps in a crooked line
illuminate only outer edge fringes
while the inner peripheries lurk in
its thick blanket, dark
listen: an hour more
gone?
IV.
It
is dawn, almost
taxicabs stutter with
luggage and passengers who arrive
from a panting carriage; now stationed
I walk the street, one, two, three,
while the sky changes color,
translucency.
Fantastic sneha keep it up.
I remember this and your artistic prowess only grows by the day … Such beautiful writing!