Bhaswati Mazumder

The dreamers

They burned the witches for the day and tried to clean the air. But the air's never clean where their breaths have been. The smoke of ideas just circle around and infect. Once infected the symptoms are clear. Your laughter grows too loud, your songs become too free, your eyes see too much. Don't fret, simply wait to die. Some are ashes. You now are the smoke.