7 t H e a v e n

I write this for it to be written,
Of at any purpose I don't know,
On my desk lay Nescafe and
a tall slim mic,
With stiff unmoving air as I have disagreements
with fans,
Looking forward,
To the chirping birds from the
garden,
And to the ticking of the
century old clock,
As my hands move swiftly
over the keys of alphabets,
I suddenly remember,
I've to take my shower.



P/s: I had a dream whereby it was all clear to me that it
will not be a dream soon enough.