Summer.

Dry winds,
with desiccated thoughts,
entering every crevices of existence..
The dust it brings,
make veils,
for surfaces of mind to hide behind.

Rains are forgotten hopes,
clouds are invisible dreams,
when heat throbs in its own pains.
Dried and thinned air nostalgic of humidity,
earth is shrinking back to its own heart,
burying cracked skin under burnt grass..
Sun is fugitive,in fugue,
wandering in the skies, amnestic..

Roughness succeed in encroaching,
all crusts,breathing and nonbreathing,
paper loose smoothness,
pen hesitant to move on,
pouring words and phrases,
through dried tip..
Ink becomes a colour now,
visible adhering fiercely,
to the walls of a bottle,
identity lost along with,
its watery reality..

The clock ticks in its own pace,
its time, unaffected by seasons,
not waiting for the first drop of rain,
to fall on its face,
unlike my mind..
not keeping weepy ,aqueous,undone hopes,
unlike my soul..
just moves on,
never staring back,
unlike my dreams