I am the enigma of monsoon…

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Metaphors pile up like burnt leaves,
on sidewalks of autumnal penury
as indulging in scrambled-egg thoughts–
I watch absentmindedly:
cornflower skies molt cloud-scales
in muffled, snowflake-whispers.

I am the whimsy of monsoon~
tickling the senses with humid scents
on a bland, wafer-crisp morn
of shivering December,
my eyes scanning the horizons,
draped in ambiguous mists,
for the clarity of August skies
laundered by tempest.

Raindrops croon dulcet lines,
to be lost within the silence of puddles,
I am soaked in the enigma
of variegated moods of nature
~ as I seek to interpret
the lexicon of a pilgrim breeze.

I pluck fragrant sighs from roses,
scattering them to perfume
moist blades of verdure–
while a faint redolence lingers on fingertips
as traces of hues afloat on water.

A snapped guitar string
is the memory of effervescent melodies,
~ a frozen promise
stagnant in the grasp of time.
I pour over parched landscapes,
thirsting for inspiration,
reviving threnodies once strummed
on guitar, in fluid sibilants–
to drench shores in lyrical tides
hurling and cavorting to scribe
verse of versatility…

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