Plastic Bag

I often feel like a plastic bag,
Drifting through the wind
With no direction or place,
Without a motive, with no grace.

I float on for hours hours, for days and nights.
I shift in a loop of within time and space.
I drift on and on…
Always as the break of dawn.

Sometimes I become one with the sunset.
And many a time I fly below the moon it’s darkest quadrant,
Howling through the breeze…
Just there floating with such ease.

I often feel like a plastic bag,
Feeling the perpetual drag, a constant lag
From the  constant motion
Of being drizzled in the glaze of sweet emotion.

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