A journey through stillness

A thousand marches of umbrella feet
Mark me in
A thousand quaking journeys
And as many halts
amidst waving tides and a divide.
Counting the whims of
fleeting consciousness
collecting like rain
every dark
that petals into the night.
The morning, however,
does not listen..

The heavy mist sets sail and
my closed limbs
bid farewell to the
dusky haze of nameless clouds.
But I do not drizzle.

Sometimes in vibrant
threads of life
and sometimes
In the paraphernalia of dreams
I am closed tight
neither dead nor alive.