Leaves Painted on the Road.

I am perched on the bed
and propped against the window,
my eyes fixated on the view outside:
leaves painted into a beautiful
pattern on roads by the breeze
that cradles the trees to slumber
on a cloudless spring night
and gently illuminated by the streetlights
which have entered into a
playful conspiracy with nature
conversing through the whispers
of the breeze – in all likeliness;
these are the sceneries the sights
of which imprint themselves in the mind
the folds of the brain, figuratively speaking
where they’d reside, but not juxtaposed
with thousand countless simplicities
and form an abstract stained glass mosaic.


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