Storm In The Quiet

For long I stare at the aimless lines of the bloodless palm,

I find nothing,

No life, no vigor,

Of the precious little I had, some got stolen,

 The rest I splurge away,

Now there are dark stretches of profound sadness,

In which the will to live flickers like the candle flame,

Unsure, unsteady at the mercy of the wind,

That blows from a demented mind,

There is a noise in the wind,

A storm in the quiet,

This silence I fear is of a different kind,

Restless and anxious,

Sleepless in yearning for deep sleep,

The searing question always is,

How and when shall it come?

And when it does will I know this is the end?

Photo courtesy - The Song Of The Sufi Masroof