3 A.M.

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His gaze tracing the edges of fans and plaster of Paris on the ceiling.
3 A.M. and the tears flowing drop by drop into his own arms.
His body’s numb to any real feeling,
As he hears his mind’s worries revealing;
his heart wants to wail,
and he wants to beat his chest or bang his head or pluck that aching organ out or puke the vermilion out.

He sees himself fallen from the glory.
Like the Medieval monuments he is deteriorating…
His beloved abandoning him like the Mughals abandoned their beloved Sikri.
He is as lonely as he has ever been.
Words drying up and the mouth turning into prison bars..
Lips sealing into a suckling reminder of being a man who loves.

He hate lying here and crying silently when all he want is to howl and wail into the darkness,
Maybe it would cleanse off the purge.
But he is afraid,
He is weak,
As his eyes weep along with his soul, he is constantly wondering of puffy eyes and swollen face and the questions he might face in the morning.
3 A.M. he doesn't know who he is and what he wants, but he know he is looking for the field that Rumi talked of,
"The field beyond the ideas of wrong doings and right doings where he could be with his sweetheart."
3 A.M. is a regretful phase to a lover caught in an entangled trap.
Opera of unfulfilled dreams, haunting like the wolves roaming at night... And he braces himself with what Byron said
"Love will find its way
Where the wolves fear to prey."

He has imprisoned himself by his own ruthless timidity.
As he bid adieu to hopes, new buds of union burst forth the barren skin, cursing himself and running to open the half closed door.

He feels nothing and yet that ache on the chest, may be the ache of a tired soul.


His sobs dulling with the ache inside him.
4 A.M. and his skull is still spiraling,
as the black abyss of the night fades into the morning sun...

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