And she left...a gift...

And she left a gift
Wrapped beautiful
At the doorstep
Silent
As she came
At dawn?
Perhaps...
When he was asleep...
When he was in dreams...
Of a writeup...
A cruel insensitive writer he...
Is he not?
Not he?

And coming out of his dream sleepy transient feel
he the careless...
Realised by the light of the day...
How she
The Holy...
Has left a gift
At his doorstep...
Wrapped by her touch...
Her smell flowery still vibrant...

And so much he
Got her sense...
That he wept...
Touche`...

And he could not decipher
What he should do...
Should he run?
Under the glorious sun?
To search for her?

But where?

he thought perhaps...
Teary eyed...
Cursing his own aloof creative jolt...
And he thought if he could be a Bolt...

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