Day 4 #napowrimo

Quietly the wind comes,
trespasser. It is she who knows.
I have watched the black flowers
alone in the secret corridors of time.
When I turn around, an entire life
stares. So, I don’t. I look at
the garden of black flowers.
I look at them. The white light on
their heads. Its quiet pulse imitates
my slowing heart. In sleep, I can hear
the murmuration. My ears ache and
curl to it. I feel it descend into a waltz,
the curtain of music in my large chest.
Slowly, steadily, like a window being
buried in night. In sleep, I can hear it,
the most distinct sound,
the pitter-patter of arriving death.

©️ Aakriti Kuntal

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