trickles of sweat,
that culcalte into buckets of water,
keeping oceans afloat,
while humans miserable, burning in the waves of unintelligible thought,
the clock chimes, with invigorated rhythm,
the wind is dead silent, as it whispers,
a silent tongue of shrill voices.
the cricketers, succumb to their misery,
in the dead cry, of the night,
owls accompanying children,
to midnight meals of laughter,
whuch would only happen in the dreams,
of a suitor to the polarity, of things.
the walls around here are baked,
with heat and wisps of murmur, that fill
the numbness of crocky ears, leaning to,
unfulfilled silences to which, the grasshoppers dance.