I couldn't remember if I had ever gifted those, for the life of me
Now that I wanted to send over a book, mandalas, complex and intricate
Like I would get an answer, let alone the gift be accepted
It was hours ago, that I asked, before my slumber
Post medication
When I woke up an hour back, it was odd
Like a train had hit me, runaway, cold and out of whack
Yet I had no answer, only an assumption of thought
If my question was even heard, or read
These notes that I send, they are oddly anticlimactic
Yet they seem strangely to invoke verses, some of grandiose, some generic black tea
Nothing would make sense, if one would try to chance upon them
I wouldn't, either, be met, or spoken to some days
I have long known my notes, verses, or chatter
Doesn't ring a bell with those who matter
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