Inside with the Night-time Cumulus

When the moon hangs overhead like a doting mother,

My thoughts become a chiaroscuro,

Indistinct, billowing shades caught by the ceiling…

The out-pour buoying,

The ‘me’ ebbing away from the walls that send back a faint echo of my innermost self

Stirring awake in the dark…

When the waylaying yellow fingers of dawn reach in through the window,

The chrysalis breaks prematurely –

and the stratus dissipates,

before I can make meaning out of it by the bureau.

 

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