Monday, July 24, 2017

Falling, slipping, vanishing...

Rupashi Bangla on my table.
An ephemeral instant passes by, when I am.
In the sound of the raindrops, in the scent of the manuscript, I can be.

Then, unable to hold on, I begin to quiver.
And I think, I become, I look, hear and am predicated.
By the time I write, it is lost.

This shadow of a brief nothing is all that stays.

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