at the verge of early sleeping
it always rains
minding will cut a breath
unattached naked wings flying...
golden droplets on the sleepy ground
bouncing sideways up and down
feathered hippos defining a chance
marching backwards with wooden guns...
sounds antiquated newer trumpets
biting tongues butterflies twisted
heavy bodies can't make a gentle stand
paper and pens behaved like sleepy drunks...
shaking fingers damaged brain
orange and green ink lightly stained
flying alphabets in colored prism
worn-out nets catching words in pain...
nails and cannons as fighting pairs
convincing precision shooting without fear
gallantly fighting like old tortoises
written words are placed in exact places...
columns and lines are deadly ready
marching on to a much needed victory
pasted thoughts are now on snowy paper
sunrise will hear the final chapter...
lazy bodies sitting on the bed
awakened thoughts are rich not dead
clear beautiful lines are instead written
not to fade away not easily forgotten...