When the Sun mildly hits the ground,

I see myself scattered

on a bed

along with the rays,

as a last night’s rotten painting.  

As jockos, I keep clinging

to those dreams

I imagine, under a bed sheet

that sacks my nudity

from the last visited dream.

Burring the head under the pillow cover

I continue hissing like a snake

that is followed by a host of people

as noised keep pouring in,

I float struggling  for survival.

I  need not say

That I m lonely

I ‘m an entity

who has constitutional right for every dream.

Yet I bag my body

Inside a dress

who move out to purchase a few dreams

from the market

that fits to my identity

and get those dreams laid

like  petals to wall against the odourr

and let them tingle my existence

now and then of nights.

I am the man

who died last night

suffocating,

 second hand dreams.