Years Precise as Ghosts

 

32

 

The city air is for the new year now

Old December hushed with

Her curled fingers ajar

Catching winter by

 

These carved nostrils of change

There will be no spring negotiations

Only, the scarlet feet of

Many paths, that blindly

 

Lead to midnight’s little toes

And all these wings of dreams

Made of glass and gold

Splintered as it were

 

Against a blue skied sun

Petrified blossoms of memories

We are all like innocent scientists

Doing experiments, searching

 

For our truths, breadcrumbs of what

We expected to find, involving

Migrations, errors, fortunate learning

To be who we were meant to become

 

The city air doesn’t know of our struggles

Nor does Old December care

She has her own worries and desperate flights

Still tracing the old signs on

 

Her way back home, dimmest flutter

Of favourite streets, and

The delight of being lost in imagination.

 

 

 

 

 

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