Yearning in Vain

Sometimes I dance in a graveyard
while the moon reclines among the nitid throng above,
“I want to be loved”
“I will be loved”
“I want to be loved”…


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 of it by the bureau.