Silent words take over the witch hours,
And flutter with the fireflies,
It's as if they pretend to be stars,
That ignite the charcoal sky.
And as they glow, they gleam twofold,
Once in the beautiful moonlit sky,
And then in the ocean of my mind,
That reflects every bit of its winsome.
Painted in the beauty of such seeming stars,
For they say you reap what you sow,
Did these words bleed into the sky from the profound?
Lost admist their surreal beauty, I don't know.
These pseudo-fireflies slick in their craft,
Paint emotions, hopes and scars,
What irony that such restless proficients,
Come only when I lay tiresome.
Their surreal transmissions bring memories from cold decay,
Far far from the world of you and I,
These surreal bubbles of stored memories,
Have me sleep with my eyes open.