Of long nights.

They spoke of a night well spent,
Gazing at endless possibilities of tomorrow.

They slept, thinking they'd awake to dreams that've come true.

They sang to the tune of the ones in love, those who are rich and the healthy.

They swirled in joy- not your everyday metaphor- they swirled in joy- not delight not happiness- they swirled around joy but never got there... Never got there, is the point.

And they wrote and wrote and wrote of a sky limitless and of air that is more on the air part of vacuum.

They calligraphed their dreams on canvas.

They rode on elephants only to touch the ground.

The night is long, heavy and thick.
The night, they're afraid, will never end.

No one told them before, no one warned them that every morning there is after it, night.

Water extinguishes the flames within them but is God so weary... to oblige?

It is early morning. Scraps of paper on the floor, words torn asunder. Letters refuted, forced to migrate, sent away, burnt and tortured!

Recorded voices playing behind a curtain.

Muscles torn apart at the genuinity of the smile.

A hip gracing a child and a child intolerant.

A cup of coffee moving with suffocated droplets of vapor trailing behind.

After every morning there is night.