One Finished Book

With a stroke of the nip

Dots lined up to make a ray,

Over the pages of an open book,

Lying above the plateau there,

Made of, marbles and sand.

In the window less room

On this piece of land.

The inverted wheel,

Waiting to fall with its mighty strength,

Pushed many lifeless breezes over my head.

They curl together,

And everything twists with them.

Turns,

And they flips around,

Like sack of hay.

The dry, but zephyr, arose and fell,

As many, reincarnating waves.

Un-dying spirits they were,

Kept flattering the pages.

From the open book,

Lying over the plateau,

Made of, marbles and sand.

One page was turned

Then, another.

The gentle wind

Breathing at the pauses,

stopping at the periods too,

Remained curious,

Like one child of talent.

And it read on

Till it comprehended them all.

But the last page remained there

Composed

Untouched

Un-rattled

And ever so graceful.

Resembling the same charming ray.

And it stopped here.

Here, at this page.

The book was over

And the pages were complete

But the flash sustained   

It had to no arrow at the end.   

The book was over

And the pages were complete

But the lesson sustained

It had no fin at the end.