bliss station ~ poetry

run

transmutation

is a snake slithering to your feet

molting

becoming

an anklet of silver.

is a krishna bee come to loot

radha jasmine but making love instead. the law of nature

is leaning, domino-style. the bee on the flower

on the tree on the hill on the cloudy sky.

a single strand of hair across a dark skyn

changes to a strike of lightning

bolting

becoming

a bee that breaks the world.

aye eye I wait blindfolded,

touching

the feet of the wind

for its elderness, the first words of a babbling baby brook.

the bakery-back smelling gang - they are about a dozen people,

nothing common in them but a strange desire to smell the soul

of the bakery. nothing common in them

like the bricks of a sparrow's grave is lack of direction.

reusable straws, paperclips, hot roots, half-ashed papers

turning into trinkets of boon-miracle-type-thingies.

turning

lead into gold

is alchemy is the atlas of your sneeze on a glass surface -

breath azoth, breathe aether

wipe it off, wash it away

with the first syllable of running water.

~Ajay
14/11/19