In the eerie, viscous darkness
He strikes his first match
And suddenly each object casts a shadow
And each shadow casts a fear.
The gathered dust starts spinning
An untimely insanity creeps over his mind
He feels like a caveman
With his soul being pulled off
By the voices of the wild streams
But it may be only a leaking tap
In the adjoining restroom.
Ahh! Poetry has forsaken him forever!
Now he can see
Characters over running the pages
Fleeing from imagination of their authors
Like he had once escaped from
The thoughts and acceptance of God.
He is looking for a book, specially a bookmark
Where she had penciled a little charade for him
Nobody knew who wrote it for whom
But somehow, she knew and he knew.
He strikes another match
This time lights a candle too
Pure white candle as if carved from ice
Its dim translucence darkens the latticed shadows
Turning his pale face all the more sepulchral
Tomorrow they will pull down this termite eaten structure
It is too old to exist and they dont know
That moments can have consciousness too
Yes, these are the moments that pretend to be dust
Most often they smell like powdered wood or wet earth
Uniformly and determinedly, they settle on everything
A fine layer of yesterday, turning all sepia limned.