The dark room with midnight blue walls;

A flickering candle on the table near the window,

molten wax accumulating at its base.

The turbulence around, the outcry over the loss

die in the stormy winds that brush off my face

as I walk back home, whistling all my way along.

The moon smiles, the babies sleep, the storms go away,

As the calculations go wrong.

A bloody burning petal says,

"The storm's gone away,"

before it embraces the damp earth.

As the leaves whisper in the wind

and the footsteps turn more distinct,

I see this world broken into glass pieces

and a single butterfly sitting still—

in the dim torchlight.

Cries of homeless nights echo in the locked room—

A faint moonbeam washed song in the dark sky.

The childhood sorrows inhibit the twinkling stars;

Their tunes left them decades ago.

As I turn the pages back, I find the incomplete story in grey shades—

The loosened bonds, distant dreams, dead love

Have gone away, as the torchlight loses itself in the dark.