April 14, 2008 at 5:06 am (Dominic Alapat, Poetry)

He dithered; he felt

he was stumbling

over stones. His mind

was a colourless fog

which was slowly

appearing to him,

slowly disappearing.

He couldn’t get a clear

picture of things. He

thought of the way back

home in the taxi. The

bylanes and the buildings;

the sparse traffic and the

shops. He felt he was

spinning into the universe;

the days and the years

were unravelling. He was

weightless. He was falling

through and through.



– Dominic Alapat


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