Ujwal is a filmmaker, author, artist and freshman at the
University of Southern California (USA). He dreams of rainy
woodlands and unknown magics. Ask him about dinosaurs.
It never sounded right when Mom said
Life wasn't binary,
her words echoing like the icy winnow
of a lakeside burst,
when every sunset spent in lonesome,
& a cove of stars bending its skeleton
Fire-spun moths & sage-skin guppies,
reminders of a world offtune &
cut like the fresh scent of their lily-white
shells, a satin trove of split beauty:
0, for the seashell rind of their cheeks;
1, for the honeysuckle bronze in their skin.
Where a coarse shore laces with lost brambles,
the hum of my dark tide burns softly.
Colors in my world have split now:
black & white,
like the threads strung about my hair;
ripples of water kissing cold crushes of flower.
Somewhere beyond the
nameless colors birth like
embers from blackness.
Last Sunday, I saw a raven perch upon
the vines, & a flask
of deep wine fortified by April gloom.
It smelled lethargic,
but the clouds scaped far across the
skies, & I lost my clasp of time:
For once, I couldn't tell if it was the
(Sun) 0 or 1 (Moon)
reining in world that day, & in these
careful moments, I feel the
breath of life: the urge to
to rush over the hillock's peak & exhale into the clouds,
to witness the universe tear.
Even if only a binary little.
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