The night is a favored subject of mine.
Cold more oft then not,
Dark and immersive.
Mystery and familiarity entwined.
It is my place of rest,
And wide-eyed terror.
My place of peace,
My field of conquest.
These ideas of mine, inside my head
Born of the dark and the cavities there.
Their eyes untrained to venture to the light
They wait to arise in darkness’ stead.
Amid the dark, they horde in the masses.
Voices in the thousands, rasping ideas and notions.
Overwhelmed, I begin to tremble.
Darkness blankets my consciousness in patches.
The voices are joining in singular vision
As a gallant figure strides through the storm.
The creatures are whispering, then voices are harmonious,
The ethereal shouters have come to decision:
Through the darkness, poetry is christened.