Transformation is only real

When day yields. When the speck of grit that commands your nicely formed idioms yields. When
Silt expands into niches that are carved out of daily necessity. That too only when it yields.
There is then that possibility too that we can somehow mark our selves out. And the dark will
Somehow sub side. But that is only a possibility whose time is my time, whose shark teeth will
Not bare the foetid blue laziness imbibed in this song. Is this a song? Will it yield?

This entry was posted in Poetry.

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