Planetarium
Fleetwood mac on the radio;
the world is tunneled.
There is only room for shifting dreams,
dancing behind a vermillion flame.
The needle lightly touches,
the slowly turning vinyl.
And I hum along with Bill,
as he becomes one with the ivories.
The princess drops slowly,
through wispy clouds that give away.
Light as a feather, glowing,
into arms that hold.
Now and again, Alfredo changes the reels on the projector.
Spilling images that coalesce into some semblance of meaning.
Light floods the cinema of mind,
and I cascade as the world gyrates.
By Nityaansh Parekh
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