Magic. by Sayani Mukherjee

The dried parchment of fallen roses

Basking too brightly like a simmering darkness

I come upon the edges

The words take too long time dear friend

A cavernous niche budding at the plants

The roses were for autumn

A spring glance of glamour magic

A rundown air ways of steel blue cloth

Hanging around with a prosperous face

The dimming sunlight at the corners

Nature's own mystical gallery

Pouring forth in autumnal haze, a hoax of paradox

Till I learned the failure of the gravity

Too nuisances at folded guttering.