I sit alone and ponder, as if musings of
fireflies

will be spared or repaired, for once the night with

dandelions seems more garage, door of unknown

realms close to choose.

And the seeping snails sleep in the corner,

like a soft tune pasted below to jar and bell,

bells ring the infinite of earthling presence,

a whimpering shatters the voided silence.

I smudged the blatter inks, to be in hope or

be lost, perhaps to sprinkle a mediocre

pit of girth, size of a zero infinity wall

containing finitely arithmetical huffs. 

It's neat and clean, for now I left the door unlocked—

nights are best forgotten, tomorrow is a shrouded armour,

let me share the ghost of past,

where I used to fly with an undying quill. 

— 20/03/2023

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Although, I've published this poem today but this is meant for world poetry day (21/03/2023).