Mysterious Anecdotes of Night

Come
Unlatch the cupboard of my chest, peer inside:
There, a weary trust lies dormant,
And my conscience, a ravaged, hollow skeleton
Still, I keep finding fragments of myself
In love’s restless, rippling verses.

Across four thousand five hundred days,
This one-night stand
A sacred ember, flaring in the jealous dark.
Suddenly, I become electric, magnetic
A builder of enigmas.

Each exhausted breath of Edward Leedskalnin
Whispers from Coral Castle’s stone;
It stirs me awake in the stillness
The ghost-step echo of Agnes Scuffs
Could she truly return?

Again, I open my chest’s secret drawer.
There, Mithila sleeps
A veiled moon within a dream.
Its sacred glow softly brushes her heart.

But I?
I am only the drowning
A fleeting note in the flood of time.
Still, let us craft a careless wonder tonight
For Mithila’s quiet joy beneath this moon.
And for my sorrow?
Let it rest in a modest ceremony.

At midnight, beneath the drip of melting wax,
Love writes its poems of seduction
Not for Mumtaz, nor Pompadour,
Not even Agnes
But for Mithila,
A lost chronicle written in ruins.

Yet I believe
One day, the sky will shed its shadow,
Revealing a garden of blooming uncertainties.
And I,
I shall walk in reverence
Across waters unknown,
And find myself there
Etched in stone, in the South,
A silent epitaph.