Sunday, August 25, 2013

Numberless, unnumbered, times by Roman turns into handmade warmth, for life, for You,

Finds Roman fonts
Happening outside
Like on platforms emptied
After arrival of trains,
And departure of the same,
Like tea cups kept on a window
Vaporising thoughts to the milky white sky,
Like an assigned number of a cab
Carrying someone like you
As seen from the hurried angle,

O on times Roman,
me finds you on books unread
And read several times,
On heels making smart yet slow calmed taps on wood,
A staircase going up,
On the waving genteel leaves
Of an afternoon like this...

O how they all bring
In theory,

In practice,
me turns all times roman fonts
Into handwritten warm,
A scripture old enough to be termed as fragile,
And a birth new enough to be called festive golden
An afternoon,
Moving on, to become another beauty,
A twilight true,
A twilight yellowish orangy golden pinkish,
Like a sublimation
Of mind,
Like pouring me liquid
Into your container,
A heart.

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