Poetry is usually inspired by a handful things. This poem is dedicated to a woman of transformation, she in her little way made life better.
True, there isn’t anything that wasn’t sane before it went rogue,
not the butterfly that refused to carry light,
that refused to live in it wings
not the noise which had its silences named in solfas
cacophony, of blaring majors &
untuned minors
not even the air that colours the helm of its beholders in white.
everything rogue is a combination, a puzzle of time
a note for the future
that we would sleep on rouge’s rug one day.
