Windows.
A crimson red.
A faded indigo blue.
A blooming yellow.
A stern orange.
Find their way to me this day, a Ninth of May.
A story beholds.
Behind each of the colored passage.
A wind, a song, a muse.
Like the stars against the blanket of black
These squared stars.
Hosting million probable mutes.
To tick the moments of life.
Day in and day out.
Person after person.
Season after season.
Year after year.
Why did you find your way to me today?
Even though I have sat here on many tranquil nights.
Why do you crave me to write against my ever so lovely portrait of the stars?
What is it about today, the color, the lights, the darkness?
Is it how routine can be overwhelmingly unique in ways?
Yes, the routine.
It is the routine.
Routine and its prism of being not-so-routine.
© Deekshita Srinivas
9th May 2016
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