The march of the night

A murky wolf slithering past the alleys of quiet
Crouched sometimes waiting to pounce and subsume
A soul awake and a spirit lost
Swelling like a tireless misty smoke slowly very slowly
Salvaging the lost realm one more time
So short a season of peace sublime

Listening to the wistful songs of winds through a bunch of pines
Drenched in the mirth of splendid solitary confines
Treading on her delicate toes, stirring the mystique in the dark
Softly woofing into the countless ears yet another missive stark
Of languid rituals layer by layer unraveling her wily art
Dwelling upon swags that sway and dissolve the mire of her warm-blooded heart

Perching on a long-dead log beside the foot of a run-down stair
Overlooking a long-lost town shrouded with mad streets running in despair
Cradling in her gathered claws the reveries of sundry sedated souls that underline
The means and ends of a decadent race determined to win against time
Sniffing in the emptiness of existence, scraping out the shallow subsistence
She coyly curls and echoes resounding insolence and indifference

Unblemished is her spirit as her graceful gait with stealthy moves as she devours
Unfounded qualms and delusions of truth bred in loads of daylight hours
Like a musing sage, she pauses and ponders as she embraces one by one
The boundless space and all it holds and nurtures beyond the horizon
Her hypnotic spell about to end, the play of shadows diminishing in her watchful weary eyes
A pain pronounced, a bliss profound both married in her sweet affair betwixt two worlds hinged to a mystic splice

© 2015 Vikas Chandra


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