Dream
Apr 3 · 1 min read
Why doesn’t this transpire,
on a moon-drenched night,
when the world is awash
on silver effervescence,
when every blade of grass,
and every leaf and every petal,
hums a sussurous whisper,
You arrive.
Why doesn’t this transpire,
when there is solitude,
in the quiet thunder
of rain, when
the clock strikes midnight,
tiptoeing around the silence,
You arrive.
