At night, when the sound of the ticking grandfather clock would echo with the listless winds, I used to glare gently deep into the blank pages of space.
My shadow would wrap around the bedpost, and I would stay and carefully watch as the stars begin to tango.
It was the mamba that only the evening melody will bring
With the steady bass as breeze passes through nature's pores, and blaring of crickets playing the minor harmony.
And, when the time was right; I would whistle.
I'd whistle as though I was the lead trumpet. I'd take the melody and rinse it through heavy wash, and then let it soar - scaling the city walls of the contagious dreamers and then wiggling my way through shallow ears so that the light sleepers would scream, "Encore!"
And, when my time was up the passing tempest would steal the show as my last pitch would drift into silence.
Still, I would continue to listen till my eyes were mounted by drowsiness - letting the melody become softer, rocking me gently into the warm-lake of slumber.
