Why play the violin at midnight
When a jilted lover's heart bleeds?
Love, perhaps the oldest word
Humanism begins with,
Sought to drink
Nocturnal passion and emotion
To carouse in like a monarch
Riding high,
Same is the glass
Same remains the urge
At bed, touching hands differ.
Very often it's too late
A crack is felt,
No balm works!
The glass washed tonight
Breaks soundless
Every moment,
Strikes at heart
Gathers dust of indifference
Into a dogged denial of primal love
Tilting towards a nexus between
Broken heart and broken glass.
