Nothingness. That’s what it is.

That’s how it all begins, and that’s where it all leads.


Now tell me when you wake up, on a clear December sky,

Of the hours of gratitude that you never chance by,

The lonely dusty by-lanes that don’t replicate your memory lane,

That pot of boiling soup, that would indeed make you stoop.


But now in the after-hours, in the safety of the nightshade do you bloom,

Your mind drifts like a murmur that is gone too soon,

Of a lonely tune that beacons all things nocturnal,

The earth sleeps, only for you to rise higher, forever and after.