Sunday, August 30, 2009


The night flows,
pounding at obstinate windows,
prowling the edges,
peeling away
the world's masquerade,
caressing the insatiable passion
of gravity

But tonight, we float.

and away.
Beyond the prosaic
tedium of gravity,
into the soaring
wings of darkness.
and away.

Like music.
Like flaring tungsten
suspended in frosted glass.
Like dandelions
diving over mossy hills.
Like dreams
on the threshold of a lingering sleep.

Like resonating shadows
drifting away into the great unknown,
into the endless spirals
of a seductive nothingness.


Anonymous said...

Leaves a feeling of vacuum somewhere, wanting to read more.

Aarohi Narain said...

'Prosaic tedium of gravity' sounds wonderfully lyrical.