Thatched air with gases,
Petrichor enunciated proclamations,
In the plugs of consequential silence,
Stripping rocks are sprinting in your periphery.

You can't personify trees
by separating them from their family,
They're certainly not happy,
In the shanty lanes for themselves.

You're betraying yourself,
whizzing betwixt great bustle of obstinacy,
And calling it a usual prompt,
Even wantonly, you're betraying yourself.

Meraki in me has blended vivid signs,
It's nail-biting to classify who's carrying sanctity.

© Rohit Mukherjee