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Posts Tagged ‘midnight’

Night dresses flowing

pink, plumes of smoke

by the passing train.

 

No reflection hides your true charm

lonely as a fog, silent as a dove

your ghost would wander

obscure by the bridge

 

green and blue

overwhelms

 

impressionism

of the moonlight

over the waters.

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In the old quarter of the city,

in the nakedness of the cold walls

of this back street. I sit alone, outside.

Here. In the almost empty corner of the café.

Looking beyond many mornings

distant, from the crowd.

 

There is something.

In the stale morning air that reminds me

of one strange midnight.

 

A quiet conversation of two souls

connecting among the silver teaspoons,

teacups and porcelain.

 

Exchanged glimpses of a period

when things are new, young and free.

Reliving a story of the jaded past

within a single stretch of hours

waiting for the sunrise.

 

There is something-

which I failed to grasp

and took hold of.

 

Something in the dust-filled glass windows.

The peeled off paint from the ceiling.

The wallpaper shedding its ancient skin.

The tattered leather and cushions

of these vintage chairs.

 

There is a memory of a voice fading

like the sheen from this worn-out table.

Among the bread crumbs for the pigeons to share.

And this bronzed cup leaving off a tinge-

a certain warmth I could not forget.

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This pilgrim slowly falls

into longing.  Loneliness

hums along a prelude

to twilight.  The olden days

forgotten. Of distant past

revealed and was found-

in the lines of her song.

 

She sings of a sad refrain.

 

As if she knew the way,

retracing tracks to wounds

of a love lost.  A trip,

down the memory lane.

 

She sings

 

as if she knew this pilgrim.

Whose heart is keeping

a sad, hidden melody

left here at the station.

Unsung of someone else’s

 

story.  She sings

 

about broken promises.

About dreams fading

into the horizon.  About

memories slipping away.

Like trains not returning

 

this song’s sad ending.

 

Loneliness runs along

here at the station.

Tomorrow is another day-

down the memory lane.

 

And this pilgrim chose

to stay awhile, alone

past midnight.  Waiting,

as she begins  to sing

another sad song.

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A little rain. And it started

to chill empty souls as shadows

prowling  some pallid walls. Alone

and not a sound.  Some midnight walk

without the stars, only lamplight. Blue.

Is the color that falls on these cold

cobblestone, silver shimmering

streams of tears by its wayside.

While the heart has melted

the shape of love, lengthening

into dark shadows embracing

empty spaces. Stretching out

to reach you.

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Mystery unravels tonight,

strange a landscape-

since you left. The room is

a parched valley of sheets

as I lay naked, bathe

in the lunar light.

 

Sans the gravity

of your satellite. It orbits

without the ocean’s rage

of high tides luminating

passion, as I grope

within the walled corners

of the stark midnight.

 

Sadness falls

like rockets ebbing

the bed. Its trajectory

creating pockmarks

and craters

of a dormant volcano.

I tip-toed.

 

To our dreams-

pinnacled fortresses pierced

with shrapnels of regret.

Ripping pillows

until blood-tinged feathers

hover the vacuum,

shatter into belt

of asteroids and clods

of moondust.

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Before the midnight sky  becomes cluttered by glittering show of the fireworks and the revelry of people shatters its silence,  I am lying here on my bed tracing back what this year the world had gone through.  It would be selfish for me to say,  that I am only too concerned of what had happened to me, knowing that on the far sides of the world, there are also people who like me, are in their silence thinking about the substance of it all.  Time has trodden a lonely and eerie path for some and here, most of us await for another new year to come.

The countdown begins. From the hours and the minutes gone to the last sixty seconds, and its ticking runs out to the finish line.  A tensioned stance that will be eventually released celebrating a new beginning of another year’s end.  And the cycle goes on.

I imagine.  About a child in Sudan begging to be fed.  A man in Chile waiting anxiously for the birth of his son.  An elderly woman in Russia staring blankly into the space in the cold of the night. A bargirl in Thailand sitting silently, waiting for a customer to come.  A seaman in a dock in South Africa, miserably misses his family back home. A teenager in Japan, held in her hands a knife, ready to kill herself.  A woman in Ireland, lying there in comatose in the hospital for a year.  And a father of three in India, unemployed, worrying about work that didn’t come for almost six months now.

There maybe thousands or even more souls out there, who welcomes the new year, not hoping, but filled with fear of how could they struggle to live one more day.  And fear has slowly crept into their being and deafening their enthusiasm to get on surviving.  Everyday, in our waking life, do we care to think about what’s on the other side, when half of the world is still in darkness?

What is the worth of this pondering on last sixty seconds before the clock strikes twelve?  I do not know how to calm down, when the world is on fire of succumbing to its continual decay and destruction.   And the day will come, that survival guarantees only the strong and the able. 

What an escape is there to whitewash with revelry the truth that we are coming nearer and closer into an end?  And all is vanity and a gasping in the wind.   Perhaps with this last sixty seconds, it is a reminder of what things may come.  In an eventuality that all of us cannot deny, where the headlines read that these are the worst of times.

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Crisp sounds of the crushing snow

chills sensation to the eager toes.

with ice castles and the snowman

lovingly smile at this skiing yard.

 

Pieces of white cloud softly fall

Like angel’s hair in a divine show

Frost filled in the ivory horizon

A postcard captured joy of seasons.

 

Sweet embrace of the midnight sun,

Misty air swirls in magical swarms

Like a tapestry the ice lovingly drapes

This once nostalgic landscape.

 

The icicles hang on the limpid branch

Where its palms canopied phalanx

Of towering giants among the forest

freezing its once watery flesh.

                    

Greenery lost in this wintry shade

bathed  in milky whitened frail

fingers shimmering, glittering

showering dust of creamy dreams.

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