The clock ticking right beside me,
Every tick reflecting an hour,
Consumed by the thoughts of a flower.
Unconscious but fascinating fantasies,
Driving the Lord out of the way,
A priest won’t but a nocturnal may.
The dumbest sounds most asound,
Breathing of trees and distant bees,
Tapping of feet seems to increase.
The rule book once to be abided,
Every ounce of sun became long awaited,
Surviving a motif that He created.
A voice inside screaming for help,
Like a cry heard from a stand-up,
Or a werewolf against a pup.
Eyes tired of being shut,
Opening to see faces frowning,
The pain in the mass starts crowning.
Up comes the sphere that never burns to ashes,
The analyst and life still at a fight,
Should I wake up or sleep tight…
Dhruv Dikshit
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-motif-of-a-nocturnal-life/
