Come, follow me

There’s a city baked in a bread
Follow its taste, you won’t grow dead,
You’d find trees made of cinnamon
Skies raining multivitamin.

Follow me to where bakers live
where their yeast grow smiles and relive.
Follow me to the words center,
and if found worthy, you’d enter.

If in your found diaspora
you find clouds of anaphora
Know that a poet told you this
that my words will always be bliss.

Follow me into those wild thoughts
and grow hairs of my afterthoughts.
Close your mind, make use of your lids,
look at the road for circle grids.

Ruddapoet [TRCP]