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.