Her dreams— poetry

She is a living art 

Too real to be called fiction,

Too fictitious to be called real.

Her dreams are shades of red,

Inside her body like 

blood sandwiched between flesh.

She talks to the polka-dotted curtains that hang in the lobby, 

like forgotten art, in a room decorated with false-ceilings.

She smells of flowers

Her soul— a basket full of baked stars,

Forgotten amidsts a sky, 

dotted with scraps of papers—

 that knit fibres of theories.

She carries her stories, 

While they carry legends of inventions and discoveries.

She is the boiling milk,

Taken off the stove,

And mixed with cinnamon

To loose it’s colour, forever.

-ekanika shah.

Reach out to me on instagram @ekanika_shah

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