At Night The Sound Of The Flowing Water

at night the sound of flowing water
(not as gentle as raindrops) come crawling in the tunnel of a dream,

i listen cautiously

i refuse to remember what is gentle and kind and compassionate

i have no veins. Neither i am a pipe of someone else

I am merely silence. And silence does not creep or

crawl.

It stays, it is a pool.

A worshiper of the moon, a lover of the night

that drinks the bounty of darkness, compromising upon the

slowed glow of

moonlight.

it is at this hour when the soul speaks, and the body listens,

friends again.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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