Night one
Of the many ways I thought to leave, a star dimmed and showed the way.
Night two
The moon, a raging bonfire. Stars sit around like tribal chieftains sharing stories. I read the sky.
Night three
I step out of the car to open the gate. White are the husky bougainvilla petals. White is the muffled moonlight and the mellifluous outlines of jasmines growing by the Sintex tank. White is the glow from the street lamp. White is the song from the moon. White, the sky that is. White, the sky that was. White is the night.
Night four
I enter my unlit home - that past midnight, roils with hope of a candle-wick that was snuffed out but will taste the flame soon.
Night five
Curtains were not fully drawn. Non-chalance of a full moon in the sky. Intricacy of the treetop that filters. Something out there always cares.
Night six
Five books by the bedside and a heart that can't decide.
Night seven
Remembered something. Twinge of pain. Some blurb that did the healing. The moon will soothe the deeper wounds.
Night eight
A thespian sky flirts with an abandoned pillow in the balcony.
Night nine
Misty grammer of muddled clouds. Uncorrected. Understood.
Night ten
Heavy, heavy sleep and the eyes droop. Closed lids, open skies. And out there a million constellation for a thousand whys. Confuse answers because they came from the sun. Children that will forget the legacy.
P.S. - For every late night that I have witnessed over the last few weeks. You fleeting, whispering, enchantress - you gave me much.
Of the many ways I thought to leave, a star dimmed and showed the way.
Night two
The moon, a raging bonfire. Stars sit around like tribal chieftains sharing stories. I read the sky.
Night three
I step out of the car to open the gate. White are the husky bougainvilla petals. White is the muffled moonlight and the mellifluous outlines of jasmines growing by the Sintex tank. White is the glow from the street lamp. White is the song from the moon. White, the sky that is. White, the sky that was. White is the night.
Night four
I enter my unlit home - that past midnight, roils with hope of a candle-wick that was snuffed out but will taste the flame soon.
Night five
Curtains were not fully drawn. Non-chalance of a full moon in the sky. Intricacy of the treetop that filters. Something out there always cares.
Night six
Five books by the bedside and a heart that can't decide.
Night seven
Remembered something. Twinge of pain. Some blurb that did the healing. The moon will soothe the deeper wounds.
Night eight
A thespian sky flirts with an abandoned pillow in the balcony.
Night nine
Misty grammer of muddled clouds. Uncorrected. Understood.
Night ten
Heavy, heavy sleep and the eyes droop. Closed lids, open skies. And out there a million constellation for a thousand whys. Confuse answers because they came from the sun. Children that will forget the legacy.
P.S. - For every late night that I have witnessed over the last few weeks. You fleeting, whispering, enchantress - you gave me much.
6 comments:
You should write a book. Not fiction, just descriptions. You writing evokes a painting in the mind's eye.
I abolutely love the way you descibe things. Vistas, vignettes, slices of chiffon pie. Bless you and may you never suffer from writer's block.
Its a well written piece . It a very lovely way of expressing the feelings nd specialy the perfect blend and combination of the ferlings nd the language
Please write a book!
When so many people want you to write a book I think u should Nd even I feel so. Please do write a book
Thank you all. :-) Really. Thank you.
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