Sleep

When the world slept I sat at the barricade of old classics I ate all morn and at night I went out with the characters one by one, I got drunk, drunk in poetry. The rhymes played at the backstage of my ears and words danced over my forehead. I sat to pen them down and they disappeared with promises of coming back another night. When I slept for odd little hours my muscles raped me and then they came and flirted with my dreams, gave directions to my winds and wrote music notes for my even eyes. I did not wake them, the dreamy bodies that travelled late night. Where did they all go? Half naked body and an exposed heart did not look for a home, skinny bones and busy fingers lonely under a bloody dark sky killed many restless nights. There was a regretful pile of unwanted recollections I never made peace with, they mocked at me. The odd hours became safe, comforting and easy to swallow? There was no starry night or awaiting lover at the balcony, only a dead village, deaf people and dumb streets. The village girl somewhere missed the city terribly, a convenient companion of her sleepless nights.