The soft thing lies in the hard,

I remember, carving something out

of the art, then I remember the bread

left on the kitchen corner, rotten like

rotten, perhaps you would notice the

little fungi too, laboring year long but

alone, something is hidden there, perhaps

you won't notice it, after all you're off

to another day.

With half my eyes closed, I notice

the drowsiness of the kitchen, perhaps

it's me, still walking on the spinning reel

rod, where I'm coming to the same point

again and again, calling zero but no,

bees on the cobweb? No such thing

on ponds, here you'll just see algae

on another algae, gathering over the

dead, unattended fish, years flew by

before it died actually, so who put

it in the oven, in the first place?

A girl's head was the last thing, I saw

through my kitchen window, knocking

on the door, she shall have answers

but she didn't, instead the rays stay

on my kitchen countertop, I can face

the sunrise now, dew drops kissing

my vines, tapping on my window now.

The rotten bread is still rotting in the

corner, my sister put the rug on a

purpose but I'm still thinking about

the dead fish over the piles of green

algae gathering, perhaps it is as it is

but it's not same anymore in the oven

for Sylvia Plath to scream.

— 31st January, 2025.