Each hour passes as in a day. First, second, third it began. Now, Saturday, soon Friday again. If only the dreaded days are kinder, less hostile to the mind. If only memories fill pages - - A trip, a nightout, a conversation while traversing unknown streets at night. But days have become prayers uttered with every breath, with nights far longer and more threatening in one's isolation.
I think about the city lights as souls. Do not die out, do not die out, I cry into the night. My breath I lift up as incense to the Sky. I pray for flickers that are not consumed. I ask for less stars in the heavenlies and more hopeful ones in the Metro. I poke at Venus now. I tell her: Dispense your warmth. Let it glow within us. She is beauty but she mocks.
Written on a night when the moon shone so beautifully, so much so that it felt like she's mocking our circumstance.