The Bed

It was always supposed to be white
Creaseless
With a silent warmth

My senses are saturated with that white

And that creaseless mind
Stops wandering through the window of sky
It then settles, settles slowly to hold
Just a few drops of petals
Smelling the words of past
Sketching the words of string

I don’t know
When I put the stem in to the ivory ink
And started writing my dream!