Most of it happens
under the hex of
the small hours
between these brittle walls
in the chaotic silence of
daybreak
while the neighbors rush off
to work

Not a sound
but the hum of
a ceiling fan
toiling the extent of
my thoughts
til it's actually time to
“wake up"

The gentle crunch of
Kitty's breakfast
rings with such soothing
abrasiveness
even the crickets can't compare
Nothing can match that
care-free lifestyle I so long for

Long for...
How long exactly?
Three hours past dawn ought to
do it
unless dreary rays of light
burn through my eyelids
and rekindle the cyclical
carnival
that cons the day's authority
over sleep

The lonely star sets upon by;
Through the clouds and showery twilight's
Upon the buildings, crossing the skyscrapers
Seen by the greedy ones, beneath the vipers
The selfish world doesn’t care
that the lonely star takes the share
To light the heaven as bright as moon
And care for people to get home soon
But it all goes in vain...
Coz no one cared! What a pain!
The lonely star cries its sorrow
Coz there seems no one for pain to borrow
But suddenly there; “here I am dear!”
A voice came; “I guess, I’ve nothing to fear”
The lonely star cried
And saw an angel who survived
Beneath the buildings, across the skyscrapers
Cried the joyful voice as a fighter
“We are same dear!” said the angel
“but we are the star and you are the archangel!”
Beamed the voice of the lonely star
To the grinned angel so far
“Star are to shine my child!” the lonely star roared
“And yes we are the same!” and the angel soared
At the lonely star sets upon by;
Through the stars and showery twilight's...
-1:01 am
2/8/2015

At twilight
I walk down the path through the woods
Carpeted in autumn's nocturnal harvest.
The guiding porch light,
Feebler than the fluttering fire flies, fades.
Smell of fresh decay seduces my will.
Desires that have forever resided in the unattainable future
Now like long parted friends sit around with welcoming smiles.
Curious to commingle with Contentment
I feel the Autumn seep into the woods,
And the woods into my heart.

Never before,  
A weary traveller lost upon
The tortuous timber trail
Felt more at peace.
Wishing to curl up in the cold warmth of the golden fleece.  
The woods will the wind to wrap him in wool of the willow
and tuck him amongst the exposed roots.

An unmarked clock ticks somewhere.
Here the eternal present prevails,
Concealed from the eye of the arrow ,
In the stretch of this malleable moment.
I, in the knowledge that my estranged self
Rests in me, am whole again.
At twilight.

Constellations of stars bend from heaven
To envelope you and kiss your soft lips.
But here I am drinking from the ocean
To forget about the sway of your hips.
I'll fall asleep and doze off either way
After writing you a letter saying
I miss how you pray: "it'll be okay",
Cause I wish you were here, under my wing.
See, the galaxies between my fingers
Are right where your planets fit perfectly.
Now come down, step away from the dreamers
Let me sweep you up for eternity.
If my voice could reach you, I'd sigh in your ear:
"Oh darling, my love, I wish you were here."

There is a sense of timelessness in the twilight
Of time standing still and extending into the infinite
Of sadness and hope
Of yearning and satisfaction
Of unrest and peace
Where time has no meaning and
the mundane melts away into the symphony of colours in the sky..

..and your eyes follow the fading light and your soul knows its purpose once again..

belaboring hurt-bells
of twilight

outside there is a furious wind
sweeping the sour-faced pavement.
the helm of the morning
fits through the pinecones.
through the dandelion,
the diadem of some mystic flower,
the flurry of children
and the fury of the populace.

i know whence the wind stirs
cold flame from the many a dead
stones, sequined floor and the
dreary stillicide of night.
our bodies rise to the sun
that is a full woman
or a ripe apple
or a half-bitten moon in glare
and when her lips purse
there is pang in the wind that blows austere beneath the foot
of hills in ruin.

let the night come later than
a bird's secret sojourn,
or the cicada's enigma.
let the cathedral of my heart
quiver later than the unsheathing
of the night's bone
but in the twilight,
when the skies are bruised with
silence and somnolent without voice
my hands shall leap into the wind
and make do, the belaboring
hurt-bells of twilight.
no more than a crepuscular twining
of a sad vine on a melancholy hymn
that makes fuller with its tender
maneuvers, the trundling in
love's wearisome vessel.