Night is constancy,
so is day.

In night there is sleep
and quiet, with dreams
and thoughts not hidden by
the heavy flow of all that makes
up the insistent demands of
being awake and chained.

But with night the pace dies
and the soul lives loud and
imagination, the prisoner of day,
finds a space to unfurl in the
lightness of silence and the
swirling call of
beckoning possibility.

Here in night, when birds
flightless find their easy rest,
I borrow their wings and
soar in the moonlit expanse,
and dream, yes dream,
of something beyond
the surgical light of day.

 

29/8/2024