here, there is not much to look at. in this 3 AM tapestry, the moon cloaking itself in profound dark, stark and unseen, stars borrowing their coruscations from their white mother in choreographed intermissions.
only a swan-song undelivered an a dwarf carved in noiseless stone. the bougainvillea casts its webbed shadow on the concreted canvas. soon, the night will turn rattling in its black bed, and then clamber back to its resignation and the identical day of yesterday's inception will revisit us through interstices of leaves, forking these illuminations without allegories nor travails, just light and its lenient pedagogy.
there is not much to gaze at, let alone speak to, in this deepening spectacle. only this swan-song that remains a secret between i and this indomitable figurine. the moon stilled in its lulled repose, stars minding their own saturations, as the day is in close transit, nearly opening the door of this pale fixture, entering with affable demeanor greeting me through a hundredfold of anonymous eyes heavy with discernments.