By the Lamp Post

In the quiet hour of the night,
The intruded hall is ever so still.
Scent of rich oak hangs in the staircase,
Long windows are perfect.
Classicism tells its tale in the library.

Best friend passes you by,
Lonely streetlights paint the sidewalk orange.
My eyes search through the grass,
In hopes of seeing some dandelion balloons.
Efforts fail, and I roll uphill.

The head greets the red bricks
Twinkling pain says hello;
I try concrete road instead.
Three stars are perfectly aligned at one side of the sky...
This is how we draw our own constellations.

There is no sound, besides maybe Winter,
Occasionally bustling through the ears of your coat
And kissing the blades of the uncut grass.
Music unheard continues to soothe,
One leaflet silently sits on my nose.