Walking, walking on the road

It is not like sitting on a chair,
wheeling around majestic,
you being ensconced,
commanding and building castles
in the air, the chair revolving
around your thoughts,
nor like spitting on the
road, as the uncouth, unseasoned,
the chewed betel leaves,
it is very much walking ,
walking on the pavement
by the dawn, by the peeping
tender sun , the rays of which
feathering you, descend slowly,
along with your walk, your mind
talks, talks aloud those untutored,
fragmented chips of others,
not Iridescent, but intersecting ,
where you are unable to react to.
You walk further down , touching
upon the white flowers, the cuff like,
Some red wild flowers creep around
the railings on the road,
you walk on, endlessly on .