The distance between time and space


She’s like an apocryphal character in
fiction, the job at the convenience store,
an azure, suppressing the deep browns
and greens, waiting for an outlet, begging,
seeking for nirvana, the, ‘yes sir,’ or,
‘thank you ma’am,’ preventing the subtle,
slightly vague sardonicism, the syllables
perched on the tip of her tongue,
and yet finding no song.

She’s like a dreamer in the library,
her inner universe expanding at the
very sights of those treasures, and
transcending barriers and doubts
as she reads line after line.

She’s in her shell at home,
hating the loud dub-step, and those
overrated parties, people
and mannequins, the same,
liquor, puke, and she often wants
to raise the curtain, yell,
“Turn the fucking volume down!”

She’s asleep, the boulevard she
strolls down in her dreams,
a conglomeration of experiences
real and gathered, inside her
space and non-linear, the only
outlet she can afford for now.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Protected by Copyscape

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