Little, Myself Poem by Procyon Mukherjee

This is above

From where you steer

And the horizon looks pale

Inside or outside



Time is like a small gasp, timeless

In an exchange, passes



The bow is pitching

The sun is on the port

When invisible in far right

The moon is readying to rise





I look and I look

And everywhere so wide

I am filled with this little

Myself, that wasn't even there





And then the light would fade in

The shine of the phosphorus

White on the moon's path

Million bits wavering inside



Time is like a small gasp, timeless

In an exchange, passes