Bio Note: Poetry, to me, is sometimes a slow unfurling of petals, and a rapid rush of raindrops, at others, inevitably elemental, even if it's about the melting asphalt on city roads and rattling trains through nights of nowhere. It's a slow humming in the soul as seeds begin to sprout in its soil, and the song of wings as birds take flight.
The Singing House
The house sang in different keys on different days, sometimes, a soulful aria that tore at the innards of silences sleeping in corners, on other days, a trippy tune, starting, pausing, rising in little movements of hope, a heady harmony, at others, modulating melodies from a medley of sources as the winds of time tinkled the chimes of memory, fire hissed and crackled on embers of passion, streams gurgled in pipes and taps, lifeblood in the abode's arteries flowing in exquisite circuitry, electric fans whirred, cookers whistled, air conditioners whined in a busy banter of gadgetry march of the minutes in the relentless tick-tock of the clock, accelerated allegro precious pop of champagne corks punctuating the grammar of knives and forks along with the aspiring adagio of dreams spreading their rustling wings under its encouraging eaves.
©2022 Ajanta Paul
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