It is that static hour when the blackness festers
Every crack of light, in its impalpable countenance.
In alembic of ponderous thoughts, you unfold
The dissenting impressions and futures, while An affable voice whispers, time to sleep.
You berate this interrupting conscious reducing you to
The borders of the half-moon cosy frame curved beneath
The soft white quilt.
You perceive clamour outside, get up, and through glass
You stare out at the heliotropes whose fragrance wallows in
The gusts of air which swells the veil curtains around you
Through the slightly open window.
There is an eerie force that subdues all your mind’s processes
When you languorously gaze at the stars whose lights,
You know, touch you from unreachable distances.
You climb on the sill, and sat there, scowl at the beauty that
Indolently charges your chest, the unselective spectacle which
Welded with so many others and still will
Long after you.
The long-dead luminaries whose twinkle showers all
The alive mortals.
Oh, such a spindly quagmire this uncountable hour!
This time when you hanker to impugn your tactile dimension
And punt yourself away
In gossamer yet comforting realms.
Somnambulism, tarry phenomenon of insensate travel,
Such more preferable condition now!
Regardless of its potentially menacing implications.
Less cruel, less tortuous than this muddled insomnia which
Demurs the value of your animate struggles.