In The Middle Of The Night

There’ll be moments
Fighting mortality,
Waiting for you, telling no one.
To no one
Shall cater the cries,
And the past
Shrieking into the silence
Of broken dreams,
Of broken strings,

Deep into time.
Deep into sands that swallow half-shells,
And half-memories,
Half-forgotten and half-alive,
Half-lost in hindsight.

Only to form again
In disjointed halves,
Raising its neck over the coming tide,
Before breaking again
Into a thousand parts,
Into an emptiness that’s cold,
That’s cruel,
That’ll hold;
Weeping and wailing,
Dreaming and disappearing.

There’ll be you,
Dreams of you,
Desires and despairs of you,
All that’s launched directionless,
All my heart could manage,
On faraway nights,
On nights long, long back,
That shall one day find their way to you.
All of me will find all of you.

And one day,
You’ll wake in the middle of the night.

______________________
Subham Basak
(January 2, 2017)

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Starry Night Sky and Girl Watercolor – Art Painting Print 8×10 by Heatherlee Chan | Lady

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Night’s Way

Silences wait to be heard. To be read. To be plunged into, to get wet. They remain, and they appear. They change mundaneness into longings. Longings of reciprocation, of language, of an embrace just meant for you. You would find compositions in the air, in the fluttering breeze, conspiring to keep you awake to the magic and warm in the night. It is as if the day’s passengers have used up their space and passed by, leaving stories that haunt you, sounds that whisper to you, an existence that persists, as ripples left by an evening boat in the ocean that last the entire night.

Everything around, bathed in whitish celestial sacredness, stooped and sat in silent meditation, emanating communally a silence, ceremonious in parts, imperceptible by urban light in others. Trees, fences, mildly trembling waters, and roads writing the history of its dust. They all seemed touched upon by a higher sense of purpose, each dedicated in isolation, towards a common goal. The beauty of the night remains to be written. The composition must be perfect.

full-moon

Moths To The Fire

The talking was short, the fire was lit for the moths,

Pauses breathed of craving, us pulled and pestered by Silence’s gravity,

Longer rose the flames of warmth, two naïve souls

Trepid at the doors of Love,

Muscles fought Desire, Desire battling Morality,

And when eyes found home in eyes, and our lonely skins could no longer hide,

That night, I loved kissing the silence on her body.

 

moth-to-a-flame

(Nov 19, 2015)