By Harshita Sainger
my eyes are still closed
but hold me tight
and give me some time
i’ll wake up eventually
this deep sleep is but peace
my breaths may sway and
shiver
and shiver
and at one point i won’t
breathe
but still keep your arms
where they need to be
make me a crown
made of dead wheat
and dried old barley
and once it’s time
the sun will slow
and once it’s time
push me so far, so close
the blue will dip below
and above my nose
and i’ll wake then
where the waters seem
to flow
The Roar 