Baloch Mess

Flecks of broken torches,
Blink. And blink.
The pale yellow creases in a setting sky,
fall in flimsy, vaporizing folds,
Upon the fireflies as they freeze on the Dark Mountain.

The dark outline of a figure,
chalked on the dark outline of another sky,
Atop a climbing row of stone steps.
Sitting.

Watching the sky freeze.

Life in the dark blinks.
The night wraps its bosom at sunset,
Its cloak strewn with fireflies,
Tiny centres of hot, bubbling life. Blinking, Throbbing.

Cars in the distance,
Moving like bright pebbles and blinking glow worms,
Homing devices on God's little map.

And solitude.
Patting and piling the clay of "solitude",
Looking for a mould to "Life",
Drinking God's wine in search for sobriety,
Gambling with Silence to find the voice.