By Monish Chhabra ǀ July 10, 2022

That which whelms, thee
Over the fence
Is what sneaks, thou
Through the dense.

For nothing, but you
Can wind it, back
Before the whistle, lies
The race and its hack.

Light of your moon
Drapes the nets
That raise the Sun
Before It sets.

That which thrills
Gears to sober you
A fog of choices, well as,
Crystals of dew.

Bowing with the rain
Storming below the plain,
Sucking the same air
Labouring the same pain.

Through the abyss
They dive together
Sinking, into rising
Stillness...of neither.