Odyssey, Nocturn

The day doesn’t have any wonders

It’s the night – that fades
like skeletal nuclear stones with
the rendezvous of the falling stars …

It’s the night – that withers away
like dry pages of the book of apostrophes
with the running paradigm of the clocks
that show the mortality of desires …

It’s the night – that dilutes through
the test-tube womb of the mother
of destiny with the trembling ethos
of the long-lost dungeons of despairing
happiness …

It’s the night – that disappears
like the misty grey purple covering
the blind God in his heavenly light
with the empty multitude of the
absurd dawn …

It’s that passing night that brings
me closer to the silent image that
resides across the empty canvas
of my evanescent eternity