Dark night of the soul,
unlit by the shimmer of mythical Gods;
The wayward treacheries of the heart,
seared to dust in the fire of experience.
From dust to ashes,
the embalmed comfort of moral rectitude.
If only there was water,
just the sound of water,
haunting the crevices of these disembodied ghats
with the music of the spheres.
Shall these bones live?
Rattling between times past and Time present
buried finally in the muddy ambiguities
of your absent presence.
Comments about this poem (Nightwatch by Pramila Davidson )
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