The gods were once nothing, Minute and minuscule back in the day, Hercules a limp nobody, Raising to plump unfathomable fame.

Circe an overgrown weed, And then bewitching with her overbearing gaze.

Does transfiguration occur whisperingly? Does it emerge solemnly? A discerningly gradual affiliation, Gingerly coursing your rippling spine?

Is it an enticing whisper cradling you to slumber, I’m parading as a nurturing mother?

Does it envelop your senses under the canopy of night? Awakening to the beehive shiver redeveloped?

A matter of change throughout the days, A clatter of cells in disarray?

For I was content and then without the mercy of transition I was not, A potent punishment of inhabitable rot, Sand slipping through outspread fingers, Cheery days I have long forgot.

As I scramble to identify the change, It is as irrevocably lost, A requiem to honeyed days, Six feet under my soul is accompanied by rot, My harbourless body looming above, Seek solace it will not.

A nocturnal’s fantasy, A night in full blossoming finality, A lull a flight in the swooshing trees, Ruling colossally, The skeleton branches grasp for the canopy of night desperately.

Bustle is tucked away, A rustle of spiced leaves disobey, The envouring darkness consumes all, Save for solemnity.

Snug and cosy, A hugging tranquility guzzling all the homes heartedly, Raindrops prevail with a pitter patter, The howling behind window panes tell a tale.

For there was a star, Twinkling bizarre, A memoir of its self-doubt.

However, I’m the treasured serenity, Cat kingdom basking in the moonlit crevices heavenly, What was adequate illuminated now celestially, An amulet haze betoken on the canopied land, Picturesque as a starry-eyed artist’s gaze, A flicker of assurance lingers promisingly.

Radiant in rapture, Flickers but a phantom of a dream, A sliver of belief radiates gingerly, Hesitantly cautious but a gleam with enlightened relief.

And then it snickers unwaveringly, A multitude of clustering stars brimming with deludency, Cunning in reopening phantoms of scars, Humming it’s inadequacies.

Brighter, they prevail, No need to detail it’s outsider crumble, No need to detail it’s fumble mumble, It’s receding linger and fumble.

The howling hastes, Having concluded it’s tale,

Still snug and cosy, The houses frown and pout with nosy, But the star remains scared, A flicker no more, A snicker can be heard rattling the windows triumphantly.