Samudra Bhowmick

Midnight

A cloudy night, deserted street
A light breeze, lost compass
Two hands direct the dance
as imagination plays tricks in solitude.

Every word uttered seems so powerful.
Like that book,
Always searched for but never read,
Stored in this jar to be chewed upon.

The drunks are home now.
So is every worker, greeted by strangers,
The mechanical boy overhears their fight.

Glowing eyes of the natural freerunners.
Silhouette of the insomaniacs,
The ceiling looks so transperant, as
We count the flickering stars.
Flickering street lamps
Signal...