it’s not spring when the bloom is visibly raging it’s the riot of tiny purple fists in our eyes their demand to stay and last while wisterian ink of jealousy writes into everyone’s nerves one stubborn verse the fear of fading into oblivion in spite of dramatic thunder of scent of a quick season of dissent and the landscape is starved for breathable air it longs to live the usual life of background green in its endless library of overlooked hues painted by faithful kisses of the sun
Posts
