(This poem is reverse sense. A reverse sense poem can be read starting upwards from last line)
Still alive, at the dead of night,
faint blues in silver sight.
Gracefully breaking the dismal silence,
wetting sand with frosty essence.
As glittering under the full moon,
if deep lustre of pearls at noon.
The nocturnal ribbon of moonlight,
Still alive at the dead of night.
Never dies, in the thunderclaps,
the unique and cryptic parlance.
Remains the lyrical stir in the air,
if the dawn chorus returns there.
A new emergence in dropping penny,
changing things every nook and cranny.
The ceaseless zest crossing the maps,
Never dies in the thunderclaps.
Move skywards, and not upwards,
if the longings crush the older world.
Kill the mills of might-have-beens,
mould the shape of all the unseens.
Harmonious words, but some never rhyme,
hoping against hope, working against time.
Confessing ones, not possessing birds,
Move skywards, and not upwards.