Day 130: Sunday@4.15

There are times in the night when the most obvious topics are the most suitable ones to write about. Whether it is the ticking away of the watch that lay too close to the pillow, the half charged phone plugged into the wall or the rotating fan that seems to be stuck in between a perfect rhythm and being loud. The distinct etching of the night can be found sometimes in these weary hours when the things that needs to be put aside have infact been kept on hold. The tea pots are not boiling evening tea anymore, they are kept for morning's break. The insanity of listening to Clair de Lune at 4.15 recreating morning scenes from Frankie and Johnnie or where the radio calls to the station seems too far fetched to even attempt. We don't need an explanation sometimes and today is just a ode to that free spirited nature of writing I admire so much, here's from my room at 4.15 am on a Sunday morning.

Sunday @ 4.15
Somethings are written at just random times of night or day
4.15 on a Sunday morning, as my part of the world still sleeps & slips away
No studio recordings on wait, no unfinished songs to be heard
They are just lyrics in forms of poetry, just meanings unheard

Sunday @4.15 speaks of ensembles of night and day,
Where the letters were still sealed in the envelopes and never mailed away
When the riddles of the restless night, spoke a language only I could hear
Songs that seem a little more direct than simply music to my ear.

We are shot glasses at the middle of the night, we are quiet kitchens that sleep,
We are closed books and some shut down computers,as we hibernate for a bit
The glare from my window comes from a street light on the street
It is one of the many things tonight, that just like me, refuses to sleep

I have been staring at screens too long, waiting for a sign
Sometimes to answer the questions where is sanity that I can find
No hashtag letters to the world, no poetries tweeted away
Here's to some 4.15(s) in the morning time on a warm Sunday.