So, another gloomy moment,
Passes by, under a haphazard blanket,
Brooding over what hope really means,
And from a moment, it turns into a fortnight.
The prime hour to repent,
Hatches a drenched silhouette,
They say it’s okay, but when one leans
Their act is called a call for the limelight.
Hatches a drenched silhouette,
They say it’s okay, but when one leans
Their act is called a call for the limelight.
Legs akimbo and spirit spent,
Wrapped neither in silk, nor in velvet,
But in a pair of tapered jeans,
Anticipating a flash of a spotlight.
Anticipating a flash of a spotlight.
When confined to bricks and cement,
All one has is a bottomless palette,
Dreary enough to drain the greens,
Yet brimming with yellows and blues in hindsight.
When dawn sprays its everlasting scent,
The sun will gradually blush scarlet,
Let this torture sprout like a stalk of beans
Because I am sleeping in my blue jeans tonight.
Let this torture sprout like a stalk of beans
Because I am sleeping in my blue jeans tonight.
~Poem 16
 |
| Sleeping in blue jeans (Picture credits: Unknown; Source: Piccsy) |
