Poetry

In the humid night
there was a circularity
of rhythmic chirping of the crickets.
 
Suddenly there is a lull.
Everything stops in the tracks.
Then a chorus rises―
building up to crescendo.
 
You become easily distracted
being sole surviving species―
not defending you flaws.
 
Then your mind shrinks.
You would like to hide
the emptiness, but
the psyche impales you.
 
The baby moon starts
transliterating the great―
silence on your lips.