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Wednesday 7 December 2016

Retrospection

What was it?
What was that thing
that danced all over keyboards
leaving paw prints in rainbow colours,
what was it that spoke 
of a heretic being stoned
and roses so soft
they cut glass?
What did rasakinda extract
in an absurd wrapping of heart?
What was that time
which passed as fragrance and syllable
in a cosmic synethesia —
a strain unnamed 
on account of rarity
and dismissed
as the mere ramblings 
of a lunatic
miseducated and lost

in territories too barren to map?