The Great Burial

The heron had dreams in her wings
Dreams that I weaved 
With violet threads that dripped like webs
From my empty soul
How I had wished to travel the world 
On that white expanse of velvet 
Condescending coyly, like a virgin maiden.

Those gravitised dreamers kept growing 
As the Krishnachura's glowed like mutants  
Ready to burst into series of wildfires

And while I dressed in beautiful gowns made of smog 
With an insinuation of the dusted truth
The heron flew higher to never return again.

So, I kept sending herons into the heart of the sky
Everyday till my breaths turned into little puffs of black smoke
And now, they are all those oscillating clouds

Those are all my herons...