When you struggle with the dragon of a dream
to catch bus 241 to W-station
it’s a dreary run up a gravel path
where you lose most flashes of your alp.
And in conducive warmth of a waking mind
you pour all over the innocent pages of your
orange journal lemonade to your soul
eye candy for your mind to settle down
pour out creative acts of inspired writings
until you arrive at The Museum’s Harbour
where in midst of emaciated bodies and
green faces your senses intonate a kind of blue.
Where have you been all scorching summers
moody springs and wine-red autumns
the snow-capped winters sugar coated with
peppers of oil and flakes of desert sand?
Commuting to and fro an inner struggle
dragons of some dreams
when one’s conclusive worth has left
like a last breath
and the orange lemonade of nourishment
has been absorbed by haunting bodies
all around you
in midst of emaciated faces
left at the harbour’s lantern.