by Falguni Panchamatia
Awake at 3, wondering how the world used to be?
Night is equal to darkness,
and morning is equal to light of streaks of sun.
Not mine. No no not mine.
My clock strikes at 13.
The Nights dazzle.
My doom is the dancing dervish.
Darkened dreaded detestable mornings are not for me.
Hooting of a bad omened owl is my jam.
A peacock too in a while gives a cooing call.
In the blind red at the Satanic hour, a Gorkha comes with a stick.
His clanks of crashing metal on the poles turns into a remix.
One dog barks and another wails for a rhythmic grail.
I think to myself
Was it a phantom's call?
A dementor, rising in a hood above all.
Night brings in mild paces,
and the wolf's wild gazes.
Crippling ideas in a form of the web and The Thought let a spider be.
Stringing by it's own mouth,
like I stringing along by my own thoughts.
Awake at 3, wondering how the world is and will be.