She finds every single day
invariably wears, to her horror
a night as a gown all over it
made of deceit and mayhem
of many kinds deftly woven as one.


Makes it an imperative
for her to choose from
nights of two kinds,
quite unsettling, it has become
as the world progresses,
is this truly any step forward?

If she  wants to count sheep
desperately in the hope of managing
forty winks, that too has become
a luxury, she can't easily afford.

She has the other prospects
staring on her face, not a welcome thought;
reject the challenge of  nights altogether
lie gathering dust in a corner for ever.

Or resurrect, herself mustering the
last of hidden power, turn a whirlwind,
rage against the hypocrisy
of the sleep deprived world,
rotting every moment of it's life
yet pretends nothing is there
to worry,remains uncaring about
it's downward spiral, gathering
momentum, turning nights in to days
and forcefully making days wear darkness