I was an unshaped sculpture, wet, raw and transparent.
As is death behind a fallacious smile.
I knew nothing of intemperate stars
That appear every night, And fade in a matter of hours.
To reappear on a nightly basis.
Till there is no night anymore.

Perhaps my vision is blurred
For all these packs of little gifts I receive everyday pills.
Pink, bone-white, orange and blue.
Wherein witches, no singing, scream lullabies to my ears.
But so does this world seem to fade in and out
Till there is no night anymore.

I look for lost meanings in a rose bucket like a life-long challenge.
I look for drought in children of the sombre clouds in my neighbourhood
That lay on the storm-beat shrubs as midday approaches.
To cover up the clumsy repetition of early mornings.
But oh darling! One day there is no night anymore.
Flirty gestures, handsome men and outbursts of tears
Will turn to ancient words in hardcover manuscripts.
Through which we continue to live a dreamlike life!
Dispensed from life itself and made to live in a glass box.
Transparent, still, with ****** reeks on its windowpanes.
And the blood stains remain, till there is no night anymore.
9.02. 17