slides on a blank paper.
The trail takea me
nowhere to anywhere,
to everywhere-
I am where my
pen moves.
The wet sand on feet,
The snowy breeze
of the Arctic.
The mellow sun shining
upon a hill and
Flamingos flying en masse
to Lake Baikal--
I could go to space if
the trail takes me or
spend nights in my grave,
if it's deemed necessary--
I am what my pen
makes out of me.
my mind seems to be
a dark room and
only ink can guide
light there.
and until I put it on paper,
I don't even recognise
my thoughts.
It's my face or a mask,
I don't know.
I hardly know what I feel.
and if you sense it
after reading-
let me know.