Untitled (The Scene)

The desolation spreads like smog covering winter morning,

Unsolicited whiff of deodar scent keeps me in peace,

The birds chirp and I listen with semantic stealth,

Not a step more or a step back can I take,

My fingers on my lips taking drag of pure air,

And leaving puff of rings as if addicted to decadent activity,

But I hold nothing between my fingers,

Just a dirt of possibility settled under my feet,

Panorama before me and paranoia inside of me.

Advertisement