The Moon stops the clock
And tunes it
To be in the midnight block.
But, it's not night anymore;
For he has gone past
The nights of life...,
Past the body
He'd been dwelling in so far...
With all the shadowed memories
He used to water…
The shredded drops of Moon
Falling in pieces
Onto his swinging body,
Can no longer trigger a flight
To the world of the nightingales;
For he has gone past
The crowd of nights,
Leaving behind
A bunch of withered dreams,
Adorably preserved
Under the darkness of borrowed lights...
The wavering touches of the blue
In a tranquil seclusion
Under the dwindling light,
The southern breeze
Flowing in from the bay
Through the unprized shades of night
Will no longer give him
The thrill of a free fall
From the wuthering height;
For he has flew past
The bays, the beauties,
The tale of an idiot
And the Styx river,
Leaving behind
A thousand splendid lies
To catch up with a truth
Lies on the other side of the border...
© Atique R.
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