I lie on the cold grass,
Black is the sky,
With streaks of red - It’s promiscuity.
I roll over to see,
That the garden stretches far,
Till where my eyes can see a dark corner,
A secret den, perhaps for the garden’s scheme of things...
The garden smells of the soil, wet from the recent rain,
And of the wild flowers, growing along its sides,
It smells of the crisp leaves, fallen on the soft ground...
Crisp leaves,
That crumble as I touch them,
But the soil strengthens,
As I try to ‘crush’ a fistful...
I feel the promiscuity in the air,
The irony of the night’s existence,
I hear the cat purring, dog whining...
I see the leaves falling,
The wild flowers swaying...
My six senses are all but asleep,
Even when everyone around is deep in slumber.
But my heart thumps hard,
Making me feel numb, in-spite of my senses,
-----Oh! Why this Irony...?
I feel numb, with fear,
Fear of what lay beyond,
Afraid of my own Vulnerability,
Scared of Future’s uncertainty...
Promiscuous Future...
...
I lay flat on my back, motionless,
And watch the sky slowly turning completely red…
Until it becomes hot, blurred, and watery,
And pours... And pours...
And drenches my insides...
Emptying my mind of all thought...
And I too, slip into deep slumber...
Lying numb, on the wet grass...
