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?
