I'm neither old nor a shoemaker
Yet an ominous cloud floats over me

The line is delicate between drizzle and downpour
As daily as switching on the light bulb

Which dims dims dims with days days days.

I had found a roof which with straight arms
Censored the cloud's dark dazzle.

I wish I was the architect of my mind's organization
But I am not and if I am
I know not.

The roof-
Old Keralite fashion for dreams and fantasies
Are reflections of the subconscious
And mine has no skyscrapers-

Is so familiar now that I wonder
If the roof is just another

Cloud.

~Ajay
8/4/18