Minuscule Pantomime

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Her eyes felt some itchiness,

they have been blinking,

to sieve that queerness, a bit more…

Queerness which caressed her

since a few days now…

Moistened her dreary linings,

for some Suns, at least…

even as peering conscience

tuned the radar by the minute.

Summer afternoons, sultry,

are usually the puddles that we

chuckle and jump over…

They may surface as quaint, rusted…

rushed anecdotes,

perched on skirtings,

that we will deliberately avoid,

to broom through…

Perhaps to save those dust laces,

when we write about

reminiscing Lilies…

Blinders taken off…

The heretofore irrelevant,

that minuscule pantomime…

Evenings are destined to lit bonfire,

and embracing embers…

The twilight beam,

that he awaited and walked along.

His coarse skin,

polished silky,

yet husk vital-vitreous,

by finger tips,

carved by the Elysian chisel.

They are the clasps

chosen for him by the

Blue Nightingale, who sings

through many skies,

while crickets steal some tunes,

to stitch lullabies

for our stranded nights

when the Nightingale

decides to sleep early!