To Rijurekh da
The thin light from the window
sniffs, recognises the smoky petrichor
rising from my mellow core.
In the garden I buried my lies, fed by kitchen rot grows
a Pinocchio reed.
If you stare hard; eyes blur; 'I' dissolves
freeing you to see more in one, how a reed holds
some infinite reeds, possibilities,
as if a lie can be true when its turn arrives.
--
The author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe. https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe