Biorhythm

A new moon rises,
with a drop of darkness,
a poem lies painted on the ground;

Night cradles,
a feeble poet’s fetal pose,
in his midnight lullaby;

Time passes,
sleep never arrives,
heavy eyes don’t seem to close;

A misty dawn creeps,
with a sun that crawls over the horizon,
My poem dissipates;

I pass out.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar

Pen it... or aaa type it. u know what i mean.

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