The Rosette

By Krittika Bhattacharya

I sleep

Sound with peace,

Cuddling the clouds

In the warmth

Of my dreams-

When the flashes

And beams, crucify

the 'nocent sky;

And the acoustics acrobat

In the heavens stretched

'cross the sphere-

The shadows invade

Yet' gain the cotton,

Silencing me

To the hushes of thunder;

And the grey

grazes with grace,

Deep down my derma-

With serenity

sedating, to sleep

with sentience, lost-

Round the clock,

When the night

Fades out,

The rays gleam

With fingers twined,

Cross'd over

The soma-

Tickling me

To a morning,

Fresh with

Aroma-

My eyes spot me,

Amidst a sea

Of, what seems

Red and thorny-

Towering over

the depression,

Carved in the bricks,

Stuffed by Adam's ale:

Trickling and dripping,

From the night's scene-

In the reflection

(The remnant

Of a rainy night),

I see

The rosette bloom,

With linen blood-red

Curled up and up

Onto the cylinder,

And edges tender,

To a path narrow

And dark,

That I wonder,

As the psyche

Of the flower-

In the distance, daisies

dance and dream

Of parties and

Happy mornings;

Stranger yet

To the intricacies,

But relishing

The delicacies-

The sight depresses

The lonely rose,

Who's miles away

From the nearest moss,

For the maid

Plans her out-

Amidst the thorns,

Who don't let

The life, flutter

over the horns-

Sighing to the envies

That echo now

and then,

She sits still

As the queen,

Aestivated

With petals, soft

And elegant;

There in the barricade.

Now the sun attempts

To vaporise my being,

For I slipped onto

the rose tis morning-

As a drop of pour

Falling of ether,

Who wants to talk

And chatter;

To talk, not with words

But only hearts-

And find

The rosette,

But not the roses.

By Krittika Bhattacharya