day and night | Serenades of a dreamer...

I wish, like the cycles of day and night,
our eyes too knew, when to stay open
and when to remain close for the rest.

How easy it would become
should they too follow the order,
for both the counts of emerging dawns
and the times of darkness.

We would know what to see,
and for what to endorse blindness,
what to feel and for what to
sport the numbness…
No matter how inclined we find
ourselves towards any essence.

But then I also realize,
that day and night follow
a succinct pattern, like
everything else in the nature,
that hosts a chaos with-in.

They enthrall us with their
order, their rules, their norms,
a regular dose of routine.
So we’re there to look for them,
to recognize how well they
carry inside a life,
just like one outside admiring them.

For what would be a Star,
if it turned up each day with
a same flare,
and how would we wait
for a sight of a moon’s charm
would it appear daily as usual,
with a same face?

Not many of us recognize
little change, they bring up along
in each passing second.
Perhaps, we’re too occupied
with their enormousness.

Umbrellas that we’re born under,
change so slow,
we hardly notice its color are
fading or escaping the edge.
Perhaps, we fail to gather,
order is only what our eyes have made
themselves accustomed to, already.

For each and everything in nature
has a boundary for distinction
but inside that
it hosts, pathways, junctions,
cross-ways, slopes and steeps
limitless.

And so do us – the humans,
greatly so,
who carry sense of recognizing
the order in madness
– if we will.
Who have heart beats,
following a rhythm, often
not of our own but of
someone’s influence
– should we wish.

Hence, I am glad, we have eyes,
for they split apart on the
pavements of the heart,
to entertain what matters
most while keeping the life
from falling apart.

And then they come
a full circle again,
knowing, rules are mere ruse.
For when they’re keen,
dreams are no different from goals,
carcasses become scaffold,
the garbage leads to the gold,
and wilderness becomes the road.

For eyes are here
to step into the dreams,
to pickup the pieces of reality
in a snow globe of perpetual myths.
To host the chaos and
figure an order with-in.

To float like a butterfly,
but not to perch mere on established green,
rather to put up a dance
on a rhythm unique.

For how will world ever see anything new,
if our eyes would flow
only with the current of streams,
or follow what’s agreed on by the
builders of past or breeders of fences
as an only perspective.

I am glad we have eyes,
that in the darkness, we can keep open.
Since not everything is visible under the Sun,
like not everything disappears
even when bewitching moon has
its spell casted.