By Lipika   

The drones of dreams curled like the rusted leaves.
Some flying some perched with a seven ream wreath,
Weave a tapestry in my sleep.

Dark and grey come the clouds of doubt,
Nail curls of petals----dried, charred, mottled----
Cling to it like an extension if abyss.

Deep into the recess of my Dark mind, the drones float,
And take a nose dive,
To find ether of aroma creating the tufts of imagery,
In my mind.
The beauty thus invoked is as ebony charactered and grey.
As the painting of Gogh itself.

The chequred enmesh of the brain entrapps the drones.
And the dirty ochre parts itself forever!!!

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