Noctis Verses

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” ― Saul Bellow



China call

It’s been ringing since day break —
Pick it up, will you?

He tenderly reached —
A call on the China, for him?!

It scared him —
Was it the one he’d been praying for?

There’s a warm gentleness about it —
It was the wicked smile, wasn’t it?!

Oh, his beaming smile —
It’s radiating on the lines, you know?

I need this(like my vitamin tablets, too)—
If only he’d realise his importance?!

Thank you —
Meet already, please?



It was slow night,
The moon seemed to blush
And the stars shone brighter

Fell in love with brown, too

He’d need her,
He was falling —
Wished the chance hadn’t passed

Daydreamt about a smile, too

With amber approaching
With a beautiful girl beside —
He wished it won’t end

It was her, wasn’t it?

And romanticism —
Butterflies in his stomach

Melting into a subtle blush

Recalling the slow night
Waiting for the chance
With the moon blushing behind the stars

Boy of 4

Rose petals sat there,
Adorning his stolen treasure –
Specks of corpses peeked from under

He was the king of thieves,
Sitting upon a stolen throne

A mental chair,
With bones for cushions
And the fallen – kept it in place

If one overlooked this –
They’d chance upon a tender past

A single lilac stay there,
Adoring the grave –
Specks of future, bleak

He was the whore’s son,
Sitting upon a debt 

Gentle innocence,
Thrown –
Directionless, rode on still

The boy of 4 – now a man
Stood there, teary 

Infatuated Romanticism (?)

She ran her finger,
His locks posed a challenge though –
Auburn knots, 
They glistened under the twilight sky

She was lost in his dreamy eyes,
Devoured by his gaze
Accents of walnut and coffee
Not a pretty medley for her stomach

Oh, did she mention his smile?
She could have gotten lost in field of sunflowers –
With the sun hitting just the right spots

She’d wondered,
If this is what infatuated romanticism was (?)

She’d realise,
This boy could be her end –
Not that she’d mind that,
But – friends can be our end, too (?!)

This person –
Was her definition of perfection
(She know’s he wasn’t,
But dreaming doesn’t cost a pretty penny)

She now sat wrapped under layers,
Sipping on her eggnog –
With the sun coming out 

She sat, dreaming of his fingers tracing her skin – distractedly 

Sad (?!)

He’d been sleeping more,
Crying into a pillow –
Water stains and cigarette butts
Empty glasses and alcohol stink

He’d been sadder,
A deep hue of blue –
Bloodless blade and needle
Hangman’s knot and metal peripherals

He’d not be sad anymore  

A November Farewell

How often
Does a sad person – have thoughts

Laying on the floor,
Staring at the fan –
Thinking of how jute would feel against the nape
Cold, bitter(?) – perhaps liberating

It was a refreshingly nostalgic feeling
One felt – time too many

A constant nag,
This too shall pass (?)
Didn’t seem to – stuck
“Stuck in reverse” (?)

This time it won’t last

On a breezy noon –
With high tides and sandy waves
A November farewell  


It’s been over a decade of days,
She’d been wailing —

Her pillow water stained;
Draining into a loop —
Of sadness and melancholy

Much like —
Someone with a broken heart,
;Lost muses
— sitting atop a stolen throne

Heartbreaks are hard (?)
Or so it seemed —
Love wasn’t lost, sadly
;The person though – was

Why’d you do this?

Dead men spoke no lie
Here it’d seem —
That won’t be the case

He’d died in his sleep —
With a friend (?) in his arm
While she—


“Patrice, are you alright?”
Ambre, je suis bien!

“But, but you’re bleeding”
Mon cœur prend une fuite, libérant l’excès

“And your eyes, so pale!”
Ambre, juste une phase. ils sont en déclin comme la lune d’hiver

“Patrice, did something happen?”
Pas vraiment, Evey gauche. me sous-évaluées pour la douche caviar potable

“Oh my! Are you serious? Evey left YOU!”
Ambre, oui, et ce coeur de la mine est de décharger les bagages et les souvenirs de son

“Patrice, everything will work out”
Il sera, il le fera. dès que je me perds dans la rose parsemée lit de mort

“Goodbye, Amber”
Patrice, non.


{Not Applicable}

She had friends –
(A few – close,
Much like family)
Ironic perhaps,
More than half of a sex
Not hers –
In generic terms of the opposite

 Of them also –
The one with tails,
She had one as a lover
And one who was her muse;
In her words –
“He was a beautiful muse”

Of those who’d become family,
A select few –
Could only make her happy (truly)
Other shared laughs and smile –
Not genuinely

Now that she’d been away –
A bunch of hours, really
Wondered –
If anyone missed a broken person
(A few did – she knew
But, mental illnesses were at work)

To her muse, love and all those in between,
Someone’s back on the front

To quote this person –
“Midnight is clichéd”

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