On a Sunday Morning, past midnight at 2
The curtains danced to the faint blowing of an open window,
Welcoming the soft serenade of a young born season.
Tenderly brushing against the moon-kissed concrete and cemented barriers,
Awake was a soul secluded yet only six inches laid between them.
Surrounded by a hedge of sturdy bookshelves and custom-made decors
The soul watched their towers dominate over their demons,
Certain of the security and what they had to offer.
Needless to say, this was their safest haven,
A place they can call their own.

But there was something reassuring
About the subtlety of the melody that played
On a Sunday, past midnight at 2 in the morning.
The air breathing in life into crisp pages
And knocking gently, elegantly on the tempered surfaces
Although life only played behind a curtain,
Hands that held only books and pens,
Eventually craved for the outside’s blessing
And awake was a soul patiently waiting for its turn.

(n.j.)