An insomniac in my blood,
rises to the fore,
and slips some heartfelt words,
in a rhythmic glitter,
and whispers them,
in the ear of the sleepless night.

She takes his creation,
in her palms,
and like the runaway delight,
of a sublime thought,
slips softly
in her own wilderness.

She wreathes the poem’s beauty,
in the glory of her stars,
and its writhing pain
in the heartthrob of her consciousness.

She forgets her planetary creations,
and wraps her immensity
in one cloak of her overwhelming silence.
and sucks me in, inside her infatuating womb,
and breathes the truth of her existence,
in the trembles of my being.
And completes my anatomy.

And why in the day..
somewhere in the closed book
of my poems..
I find a familiar scent..
lingering..
overshadowing….
from the tear-stained
verse of the forgotten last night….?

Sarvesh Kulkarni

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-insomniac-and-his-night/