by Daniel Njoroge
In the dead of night,
Illumes born of Lanterns; Curtains every window.
Aloof, crickets lute melancholies; so depressing and darkening,
That stars hastily constellate only to gaze in sympathy.
As gloom alights its luggage on the stillness of the night,
Forlorn, Oh Forlorn you stand at the street prows—And Summon.
Your hail, a fog, glides unprecedented; noticed but undesired,
Behind fastened knobs; all sheath their souls from your fatal claws,
However, smoothly you quiver loose, hinges to all serenity as you stroll by,
Unsolicited, you fling open doors to utmost intimate emotion’s nakedness
And move in to wed all souls that dine alone.
Seeking consolation, most drown in your cold bottomless sea of an embrace,
Hypnotized, you rob them of their sleep by sinking your fangs into necks of their dreams,
Steadily you suck to a halt the pulse of tranquility that thumped therein,
Alas you lip them with a Judas’ Kiss as you tuck them in their own bunks,
Awake they will lay and awake they will stay.
Awaiting atonement by morning light.
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