Image by coffy from Pixabay

A sweet Indian dream –

a wish upon the moors of bones that sleep.

A swirling beam –

the warmth of a distant stream

stringing softly the lullaby of lucidity.

Bottled and enchanted

Robed spots of galaxies and peacock purple

What use does your name provide for my life’s purpose?

Enchanted and unbound

Sage of another nurture

Your epithet is the sword

Through which many have come to abhor

Beautiful and sparkling nonsense

Be banished to the outskirts of human conscience

Obtain the key to self-belonging

Ere you find nothing ‘fore the throne of abyssal torment