Saturday, October 22, 2011


When the sun, the light, the day
begins to retreat,
the darkness slowly slays the light
everything conveys the message of being meek.
The trees stand tall on the real estate,
with their crowns bowed down,
the wind lulls something into their ears,
they fall ruined and in sleep they drown.
The flowers look obscure,
and muted and dun,
it's chroma haltingly fades away,
just like the subsiding sun.
All the quadruped mortal animals look for a cave,
where they feel guarded and inviolable,
because the witching hour,
cannot be conspicuously decipherable.
With the ingress of the dark occasion,
old and young sprawl in coma,
aphid bob up and inherit the gloom,
the eventide has it's own aroma.
This darkness conceals masses of lies,
heaps of truth and piles of crimes,
affairs that cant be disguised by man,
is sequestered by the shadow of calumny.
But akin to the whole ball of wax,
the night reaches its borderline,
like every heinous character gets polished off by the god's messenger,
the lambent light kills the cimmerian shade.
Once more the dame sings the aubade,
and embraces the flare,
exhilaration can be sensed in their hearts,
as they turn on the light at the end of the tunnel and with hope they glare.

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