Give me time in the glory of night, I'll hold

the pen so closely in the dim brain, started

with little reflection— deflected memories,

some are still fresh, some are trying to see

the daylight, prying eyes to open slightly

but my brain is wired in diagram of forgotten

loops, shut the old room before it trumps

over the lamp, but—

How do you do what you do?

You weave words from foggy shadows,

All you hear crickets buzzing, increasing

with every hour, so I shove the shrilling

voice back in the corner.

This time, I open a box of wreathing

silence from the Riverwood, before it dies

out on flashing wave, of stimulus checks

for a new planet, seeking something

beyond the pines.

On a sudden hour with a flash of delight,

I see the same flashlight once again,

in between old and new testament,

moth catches the fire, but old ruins

remain in dust, I couldn't revive

the flash drive.

My words remain in golden tone,

Leaving the ol' friend as overgrown.

— 3rd July, 2024.