The seat beneath me in uncomfortable, slippery by the inch
To seek warmth, the wispy air clings to my skin with a slight pinch.
The first minute, its blackness everywhere.
Little bits of gold and silver flicker here and there.
The next minute, the sky is alive, dancing.
The bright colours and the loud cacophonies prancing.
The sky seems to move without the earth, running in every direction.
As I watch fixed in my seat, that loud perfection.
With bursts of blue and green and yellow and red
The sky narrates stories unsaid.
The next minute its blackness once more.
My seat is still slippery, the sky is no longer uproar.
YOU ARE READING
Reverie
PoetryReverie. A state of being pleasantly lost in one's thoughts. A daydream.
