By the misty pane, over the candle flick,
The moon, shy, glides into the clouds thick,
Red eyes bore down on the parchment wet,
Dried and cringed from tears and sweat.
Toppled, the pot of ink on the table lay
Have had silently bowed to the winds’ say,
The quilt scribbling away words unspoken
Wishing to mend the strings broken.
Pages after pages the quilt bleeds,
As unto sweet longings it recedes
Carving delicate reminiscence faint
Of chained reveries, a tad restraint.
The wobbling flame, signals the end
But, more! More has to be penned.
Signed reluctantly, sealed with a kiss
With the pledge of a tomorrow, bliss!
And like epistles written every night,
Held tonight’s too to the flare bright
Crumbling, vanished into the smoke, lorn,
Dreams wrecked like a baby stillborn.
To collect, unto the urn, ashes, dry,
Bottling nights and memories wry
For one day, will set the urn free
On its way to you, across the sea.
Have you ever had lots to tell,
Writhing to break loose the spell?
Have you kept the nights awake,
Of hearts, desire and longings ache?