WILLIAMSJI MAVELI WRITES.....

The velvet cloak of Sunday night descends,
A hush falls soft, the weekend's laughter ends.
A single flame, a teardrop made of wax,
Melts on the edge, a silent, falling tax.

Its ghostly glow paints phantoms on the wall,
The bookcase whispers tales, both rise and fall.
The clock hand glides, a slow and spectral sweep,
A Sunday's dream surrenders to the week's deep sleep.

The open page, a canvas stark and bare,
A silent plea beneath the candle's prayer.
The city sleeps outside, beneath the moon's soft eye,
But here, within, a verse begins to cry.

The whispered lines, a tapestry of sighs,
Of fleeting joys and ever-present lies.
A Sunday's echo, a Monday's distant hum,
In fading light, a truth struggles to come.

The fading flame, a wisp of fading breath,
A dying ember whispering tales of death.
From weekend's grace to workweek's grinding gears,
The poet wrestles with his doubts and fears.

So let the candle sputter, its light grow dim,
As Sunday fades to Monday, a fading hymn.
For in this liminal space, where darkness takes its hold,
A poem's soul is tested, its story yet untold.