My thoughts lay printed on sheets of paper.
stored in the drawer of my mind.
They are organised, neat,
nothing out of that place.
They can't be touched by outside's strangers
filled with danger and cruel intensions,
I am the only one with the key.
To this infinite drawer with ideas.
But, sometimes a foreign gust of wind comes,
it rattles and shakes the knob of the drawer,
each day getting stronger and stronger,
closer and closer to freeing those papers.
the enemy, the wind is a master of uncovering
of daintly covering out of my papers
like dandelions on a vast field,
to blow and disperse the seeds to unknown areas.
Comments about this poem (Wind by survi sharma )
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