The hoot of an owl, the eerie night,
Draped in darkness, the forlorn skies,
Only a chalice, keeping the dreamer interested.
How through a crack in a pupil,
We let in pint-size light, like how one crack is enough,
To let in a lone firefly into a house.
How the night is a sentence, in circadian balance.
How the full moon, keeps no tab of who is watching.
The slow grind of the night, made oblivious by sleep,
The meadows of dream, the rapid eye motion,
The moments that become formatted a second after.
How the owl, sees, what we cannot,
The yard mouse that sneaked out for a meal,
While the fire fly, plays with a child,
A game of, catch me if you can. The night
Has no room for the theorist, it is the plain for the dreamer.
How we are all walk under, a large black umbrella,
Whose canopy has a few holes in it. The light
That strips a heart bare, words
Like rafts, swimming on parchment,
The pen, the loan oar, grafting ripples,
That transfer, in the opposite direction
To the gravitating pen. The fishing poet,
Spreads a fishing net, to catch a school of fish,
Words that that have their own gills,
Evolving into a pair of lungs, on hulls of paper,
While the moon, turns to a perfect muse.
Aren’t we all, peeping Toms, looking through
Little holes on a jet black canopy.
How our obsession with a naked satellite,
Turns a keyhole fetish, into a
Strain of uninhibited loon.