Yellow sky

Shouldn’t the world be split into two

The rash runners and the careful joggers

The introverts and the extroverts

Scaling the lands with thoughts in mind

And some with thoughts on their lips

This craft would be of the witch

Disheveled from gold embedded chips

Scaling the land for a source of pride

Running down lanes where the truth hides

I do not know where this poem would go

It searches its destination on its own

Despite of what I know to be mine

The words seem foreign most of the time

My mind never cooks up a rhythm

The concoction is made on its own

Silence sinks it’s rotting claws

On the cliffs hanging dangerously on roads

Swaying with the Malibu breeze

Kissing the Sandy seas a sweet good night

Fumbling through our carry bag

Trying to find out our lost innocence

Where did our past go to

A hidden land of retired fairies

Showering with glitter dust

As bell jars of memories pass through their radar

Down to the dungeon where the demon resides

Life is a poetry, a rather clumsy one

Filled with rhymes but a sudden change in them

Metaphors unlike any supernova

Imagery as vivid as a child’s smile