Light of the evening summoned itself down
with the shimmer of bluish and pink sky scattered above.
Clouds of white fighting the bright tides of ocean,
moon hiding behind as the shy crabs in the shore.
Selfishly cleaned cent of beach land in the stretch
poets making a cozy circle with listeners up close.
Black boxes of amps making sweet and feeble thunderous sound
when the poets hit them twice before they shed words on the ground.
Twinkle and sparkle of the artificial lamps married the space
where the glow of unsung souls expressed their songs in grace.
Old, young and the depressed hearts
got together and showed their naked parts.
Parts that make them an irrelevant yet beautiful part of the whole
like the dead stars that rage today and show off the spirit of a whore.
Bottled egos romanced the essence of love,
a love for expressing the gentleness of absent hate.
Each of their voices told a part of their story
and hid the remnants between the pores of ocean mud.
Everyday the poet cries and everyday his stocked up heart dies.
He was the poem that wanted to seek the touch of the lives as we speak.