Silent Progression

It was one of those nights,

Those bland, ordinary nights,

Of no fresh beginnings and no happy endings;

It was one of those absolutely mundane nights,

When a gray fog snaked through sleepy, tired streets.

Somewhere, a cat mewed,

And a dog snored nearby,

The garbage dump smelled as bad

as it had on last year’s December night.

That dawn was not far away,

Consoled a nervous, cowardly chap,

Who’d go on to become,

The best in some job he never liked.

And somewhere,

A couple lay dreaming under the stars,

Unmindful of hazy clouds;

Amidst dreamy eyes and half-whispered promises

There was a bright moon that dimly shined.

Smoke sneaked through an open window,

Into a room filled with friends and strangers alike,

All were having a great time,

Except for that recluse who was universally considered nice.

An old lady was walking back home,

Tired after a long day at work

Her eyes were weak, her knees weaker:

Both collapsed, under a twinkling streetlight

A few other such scenes,

Need not be carefully described,

It was after all an ordinary, silent night:

Silent but for a hushed, progressing sound–

Indifferent to the pulse and throb

That orchestrate ordinary life

© Geetakshi Arora

 August 6, 2013