I like smelling poetry. The way it wakes me up, all hurdled over in the green evenings, its touch both coarse and slithery at the same moment, its impulsive movements like a kid out of his bed, everything draws me closer.
Mind being still and staring at the wall? It talks. It recites of a relationship, an unknown affiliation with hundreds of people it meets. So do the trees, the streets, the water pots, the animals, the sky, the sands, everyone sings. I call this poetry.
Sometimes I find my hands painting in air. The canvas is merely an illusion. Tasting this esoteric stage, a scenery all around us, poetry comes flying, paintings emerge from soils. And colors and words, do you need any, separately!
I don’t know why but today I wish to be at a place which can be accommodating . My heart as big as an ocean needs a place to burst. Like letting go every part of it, and to just dwell into the conscience of a friend- true and poet. Smiling and keeping on the circulation.
Listening to the river, the froth tickling my feet, I like the butterflies singing. I sing too, some poems. Music comes along, so the words, the colors.