Solitude...

yawns in the calm of the night's whisky like blanket,
gentle yet brisk,
steady yet wavy
like the curve of the crescent moon,
a smiley,
with rough edges and benign stature...

it swims at times,
actionlessly,
as meaninglessly as in sincerity,
as distinctly as in 'situation's' perplexing dichotomy,
as pristinely as in hurried devotion,
as eerily as in thought's piercing gaze...

like a white swan in some waterland,
where movement is stillness in motion...