Blue Morning

By Mohit Vyas

Curtains dripped with the gold.

I don’t like mornings. Speak it as of a sunflower;

And I’m allergic to Yellow.

Just of the all shades:

And somehow Sun-lit grin doesn’t deserve one.

I like sleep. But my dreams are grey.

Grey. Like hot summer roads I traveled in a day.

Beauty sleep; But no beauty in the sleep.

Yawn—what is so beautiful in waking up

Look at those bears; Strong and vicious.

They always hibernate. Yet what is fishy with them;

Except it is what keeps them full.

Gold. Gleaming gold. Morning of my house;

Clattering with each, Three shiny faces of house.

Dull and Drool. Its Just around my face—that is my whole room.

Whistle of steamers split the lashes; Just like the Sunlight cruising through a rainforest.

Sun moves, and People move around me like fine dust particles in sunlight;

I, a canopy of blankets. Holding myself for a tree like routine.

I like Blue in me. Blue in my Comfy trunks.

Blue of the morning sky where I squint—

To fight with the sunshine yellow.

And Blue my thoughts.

Light as it go when more I sleep;

Underwater dark when there is no blink.

Colors are of Others—but Blue morning is all I am—

A carved puzzle divide me; in unsettled hair- my face, my beard and my equally weird eyebrows

Blue is beneath—in glances of morning hush—in dried stretches of golden skin.

By Mohit Vyas