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1.

Swirls of golden smoke rose slowly from my blazing coffee ***. The dusty car at a distance slithered and crawled up the winding road. Sitting in the shack I watched the sand snaking its way up, keeping pace with the car and pelting it with sand particles as if it held a grudge against the driver. I had planned to go dune bashing but for the ominous tone of the desert.

2.

The next day morning remnants of what the desert spat out, the sand particles consume me. I am cloaked with gloves of voluminous dust. I take another sip of coffee. The pungent aroma of the milieu and coffee leaves me breathless. The greens are choked and there is sand art on pavements outside.

3.

I try to remove the sand on my hair as I wipe the aurulent sheen on the window pane.  A bunch of men wipes the dust from the tables and chairs in the opposite shack. An old dusty car crawls to a halt and parks, blaring the music of Led Zepplin.
the landscape
drew cumulus green;
the full moon shattered,
falling in the dark night,
its pale glow
fringed the head of trees,
fireflies
in the muted sky.
my backyard was outlined
by the frayed edges
of the moon, its ghost like images.
I swept the rooms;
in the woods nearby
moss steadily crept
and consumed my backyard.
blood moon
under the rowan tree
autumn berries
low tide

first breath of sunset

on the gull’s wings
departing autumn
under the books
my lost muse
Sitting on the bench
under this weeping willow,
I talk to you.
As I throw my voice across
the breeze catches my words,
and brings them back to me.

I make
watercolor images of you
on my paper.
Stroke after stroke,
using shades that I like
to fill the crevices and gaps within me.

Tonight I throw pebbles idly
into the stream.
As fishes gather around them
I talk about us to the moon.
A rickety iron bridge
worn out by time,
roofless, look up
to an intriguing sky.

My spirit leaped out,
a meteor shower, along
with the blue moon and stars;
it looked down at me.

Epiphany, not a dead one
ferns sprout from cracked walls –
mute spectators to life.

The raintree standing on the right
homeless, dipping its leaves
into the stream,
meanders through me,
the moss-covered bridge –
transient. It was my place, ours,
yours and mine. Homeless.
A passing moon and empty silhouette
keep me company this early morn walk,
their quiet company, a silent vignette.
A passing moon and empty silhouette
embrace longing of this hopeful gazette,
yet bid adieu to my faint solo talk.
A passing moon and empty silhouette
keep me company this early morn walk.
neon lights;
capture

our muffled
smiles

as it cuts through
the gaps

of the wooden
bench

and snow washed
summer

— The End —