• love_whispererr 18w

    More often, I fall for the innocence of clear skies than the painted sunrises and sunsets. I tread my hand towards the blueness while painting my hand with the brushes of white tulips and pink lilies. They perch on the stillness of the blue welkin and refrain the melody of winters and snowflakes; I name them as poetries who unfold the craziness of my twenties and I become high on clear skies again and again to sketch my parables blue.

    Often I love black pansies of my balcony who nod their anthers with the breezes of summer and their lavish petals never scare to show their dark side to the world. Those innocuous sepals holding the hearts of ovaries, they show how to bloom with the inky pudding and the summer notarizes their sinless and never-terrified stance with its arbours and my poetries bellow under the mists of black.

    And then I love to wear the anklets of my grandmother, they're heavy and they tingle with their unstable surfs ; which make me happy in a late night while everyone dreams in their silences. The womanhood of mine roars within the hums of katydids and cimmerian nights look more rebellious with the melody of my muliebrity and they jingle with the gusts of August raindrops and sturgeon moon waits for my silken stories.

    Wearing that anklet, I put a black pansy on my left ear and murmur a song of 90s with some wrong lyrics and incorrect scales, I stand under the clear skies of December to syllabify myself within the saucers of happiness. I forget that I'm a poet, and I want to become a poetry and bloom near someone's elflocks of diary.


    ©Bidya B.

    #joy #wod

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