On the heels of a day mundane,
another night has put its feet --
'cause dies down every fire there is,
and a chill replaces its heat.
And left behind are some bones, some ashes
of memories, and mere dark stains, --
to be scattered in time by winds harsh, and
washed away by years of incessant rains.
The night has brought the struggle back,
to rein in my thoughts stray, however vain --
thoughts do come, what're they if not hungry lions,
and its hard to stop'em, from coming out of their den.
Trapped between the jaws of those beasts
should I give up, be a prey, writhing, --
or play a tyrant I must, kills his own subjects
who, and doesn't even feel a thing?
And by the window, against the wall,
lie the vast plains of my bed --
quiet and empty, it resembles a Pharsalus
and surely its' perfectly made.
Flee from the encounter I can,
condemn myself if I just, to the chair, --
But punish the innocent clay if I,
the struggle will be anything but fair.
So I go to this bed of mine, seeking
subsequent glories, comforts coveted --
under the blanket, lose if I were to,
at least the conflict may stay veiled.
And just about the time when I,
having won, was to fall asleep, --
appears is a dagger unseen, of cold,
and slashes me repeatedly, deep.
Though the cuts were deep but no more
than those piercing words of theirs(/*yours*/) can reach --
I canvass the surroundings of my room,
for the probable point of breach.
True, walls you can raise against your foes,
but what fort can hold its head high, --
when the traitors are the sentries themselves,
and the words are just words, from a disguise.
A mere look around was all it costed,
to find the window with a missing glass --
only a paper I had, I tried to paste, except,
when bronze is the need, doesn't work a brass.
Stubborn was I, and I persisted,
another lesson was to be learned, --
irritated, I completely opened the window
though this is not what i had yearned.
And outside, blows such a cold wind,
and persists the darkness stark --
shivering are the dogs, or have,
some reasons beyond their bark.
Unaware of this all, was a flutter of moths,
overjoyed, as they had a perfect host, --
singing and dancing in the dim light of
a distant, and warm old lamppost.
Maybe it was the sublimity of the lamppost,
I got all the warmth I needed --
I slipped into my bed again, and
the cries of old wounds went unheeded.
Quiet have become things now,
maybe subsided has their pain, --
but those dogs will howl again, unless,
the warm light of a lamppost they gain.
And perhaps, the next night when it comes,
the cold will remain as before, dense --
and unclear may remain the path,
laid down for me to embark. --
But I've hope, for my warm lamppost,
and for things to reveal their sense,
then free of my borrowed crutches at last,
I won't be creeping, I will proudly walk.
