There's silence in the city,

Before the very first light,

And although I'm fully awake,

I still feel the essence of night.

 

Sleepless hours of thinking 

The absolute unpleasantness

Widespread transluscence in light

Like the clouds disliked the sight.

 

Expecting every acquaintance 

To be elevated on tranquillity

Would discompose and knock 

My own commensensical stability. 

 

If I were to wake up and choose,

I'd pick up a companionable rose

Than a blunt, controversial knife,

For there's nothingness in strife. 

 

There's no great renowned critic

Than a sound, conscious mind,

Eyeing of the next milestone, 

Howsoever hard it is to find.

 

Discontinuation of a genre

Doesn't conclude an art meagre,

A creative change in personality 

Doesn't build immediate affinity.

 

Genuine audience will attract 

And will extend hands to uplift;

They will spare the stated shifts

And will let artists be artists.