Spriha Kant

Sep 2020

Shrika

I watch her.

I watch her,
as the night drapes over her window,
as the stars tangle in her hair,

I watch her,
as the chiseled imperfection
of the moon stirs her inky musings,

I watch her ,
in the uncertain glow of the dying candle,
in the torrent of tattered thoughts,

I watch her,
watching me through the silver-smeared glass,
through the pits of colourless brown,

                                      I watch her as
                                               she slowly traces the silence,
                                                                   silencing the traces of him.