night time

the night paints purple strokes on heaven canvas
in humanly desired imperfection...
being to human life most true reflection,
the sky contains a lot of sadness.

I knew a soul, so passionate in virtue,
she knew the dark and nourished moonlit daisies,
most days were distant, gloom and empty hazy,
and her belief itself was torture.

her image clear before my eyes is blooming,
I wonder why she tickles with my conscience
and builds anxiety on my exhaustion,
she likes it, I’m assuming (so I let her).

I've been waiting, but for what? I have no clue.
all clocks have stopped the moment she was gone,
now breathless silence chiming none past none
and apathy’s refracting light in purple hues.

night. stillness. wine, that is as dark as space
around me in fleeting hour of bliss;
I like to think that it’s her laugh I miss
and not the way I felt in her embrace.

I’ve been waiting, and maybe I’ll hear her speak
and I’ll remember that I lost my soul once,
could she be mine? I guess she never was one...
it’s morning now, the sky is bleak.