I sat under a mango tree and talked to myself,
then talked to my conscience,
i talked to the wind, sweet talked it to tell me it’s secrets,
how it talks to the trees and they listen,
i wanted to know the secret of being calm when the storm strikes,
i wanted to talk to the clouds,
but they were too high my voice was faint,
i was so mesmerized by them, how they could form into anything they wanted to be,
a unicorn that seized to exist, or a beautiful woman that doesn’t exist,
but they were too high,
i talked to the ground and made it my friend,
to be soft and not hard,
not to speak and be heard,
to be wet and not dry,
to speak when my strides are too wide,
to speak when my weight crushes it’s bones,
i couldn’t talk to the mango tree because it saw my troubled mind way before i spoke,
it consoled me with it’s leaves that fell like snow and formed a bed,
and sleep felt welcomed, walked in without knocking, and swept me in the land of imaginations.
Dark hands 