When there's no light,
Twinkling in the sky,
And No nothing attached to sounds, or to words,
A complete darkling then encircles my soul,
I am all within, and I am all without.

The evening recedes, slowly,
Into the huge enormity of the roads,
The budding fingers of a reflective drama, smoke a cigarette or two,
Trying to inhale the tiresome day,
All within, and all without.

And the stream of steam, and saucy lights,
Vibrate like a lamp,
Timid and tired, as the night turns grey.
The bottle of hopes and wishes fritters like encrypted codes,
In a mode of transportation, to the colorless doom.

The scheming clouds now wash out,
The streets,
With the ferocity of an obtuse flash,
All within the membranes of frailty,
The maze of entangled wires,
Embraces the dark, like a drift of velocity.

The people with no such reason or rhyme,
Return home from the receding days,
A song within,
And a thought without, half extinguished flames.
Such starry, telling tales, moves through the mirrors, of history and facts,
And ages and ages on a dead planet.

But all,
Within and all without, like a fake plastic evolution,
Trying to strip the string of lights,
Like an aged old ghost.

For, The night is in bloom,
And they would now sleep,
In the seven sleeper's den.
All without, and all within.