The march of the night

vikas chandra

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…

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