Fragile theatre
When night steps down
and wild flowers recede
into the blessed calm of oblivion
like a hand forsaking desire, -
pallid under the cracked moon
shot with hints of blue,
the world resembles a pastoral
alien to tension of light
and gods
drunk with distillation of thunder.

Shakes of leaves abate,
the unattainable perfection of thought
relaxes into the breathless peace
of void of mind,
whose positivity consists
in the negation of the will.

Impartial to things of stone
losing their stoniness
in the black stringency of night,
images dwell in the untextured air
like replicas of reality,
and yet the real imitation
is reality,
not the images.

At the edge of night,
the fragile theatre of life
crumbles to dust of light
and dark,
embracing each other
like Chinese symbols
uncaged into being.

Night delirium
Clouds, not the ordinary moon,
manifest and lonely
in the dense scopes of dark,
clouds accompany the polymathic delirium
of this night.

Aggravated by the black vacuum
of the sky,
pallid perceptions of distances
crumble to blindness
like a tired eye,
and madness of colours
effaces itself
in the intricate evasions
of imagination.

The untuned reticences
of desire
transfix the ego
like a fake light,
enhancing its delirium,
while palaver of lips
discovers the sacred spaces
of silence.

like old tune or voice,
the black load of fear
becomes tangible
in the capricious colours
of morning,
in the Phoenician sky
spreading over a reality
uncertain as faith.

There is a sense of panic
in the renewal of life.
The outrage of the years
is a swan song,
a remote surprise.

The defeat of desire
The epic of desire
has faded to a faint
a confusion of syllables
unable to join
into trickery of words.

Speaking their parts
as in a trance of thought,
the personae of life
stand on the stage
and stare,
waiting for the grand finale
that doesnít come.

They are tired.
They are not in search
of an author,
but of a prompter.
They donít remember the words,
they donít know why
they are dressed as Pierrots,
make-up blurred
by real tears
and sweats of life
and fiction
and life again.

But the prompter
doesnít speak the word,
and they ramble on
like drunken sailors,
laughing at themselves
in the tacit hysteria
of despair.

And the grand finale doesnít come.
Not even a shabby finale.
The perfection of the circle
is the consummation
of sufferance,
the consumption of hope.
The prompter is dead
as the personae.

The night exhales its nimbus
like a limerick -
it pokes fun at me.
It unfolds into nothingness,
chaos of black and blue,
dump of clouds,
and solitudes that slink
through the virginal spaces
of the skull.

Words have drained
into these crippled images
like change
into a beggarís hat,

I am confused.
I donít remember.
I donít know what to say.
My soul is cramped on vacuity
like a supernova,
ignis fatuus
inebriated with silence.

It empties its solitude
into the black vault of the sky
and stares,
perched on the circumvolutions of anguish
like a sick owl.

Its sunken song
is louder than crash of thunder.
It unlocks the universe.