It is dark, yet night has not come
a dark crescent up high, a fading smile
the hush of a turning cog, felt rather then heard
an inwards light just flickered, invisible globe of time
whirling pen not on paper, blood tinted forms to numbers

tiny beads glowing, reflecting, refracting
hundred prisms shifting on skin
slowly forming, swiftly perishing away
movement bleared itself, masking complexity
semi darkened figure whirl round.