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Poem

A beacon stood, much to the permit of a mistress,
that onset the glory, and upset the bated break, of noises at bay, 
where cinders lay, disturbance blew as wind; and she didn't like it.
Dust was ordered to sleep by, chronicles of daylight,
that had to wait, there was more time to fly,
before silence came in full circle, declared, and choked,
in winter hour, and said what the night had to say, 
in the lowest possible voice, but failed.

Space had a timepiece that night, which threatened-
to choke as well, among the other fears, bundled in darkness.
It wasn't a blackhole, but close, 
where passes stop, atoms deny, ashes drop, and join the cinders, 
one by one. It was functional, though not continuous, but close.
It was charcoal that did well, under pressure,
and sparkled as diamond on the beacon, the only positive face,
of the night, and onto it.

Revelations were far, much far, there wasn't enough moon in the sky.
There was only this possessed extension, 
of a femme fatale. The night was possessed, one of many,
outside of the general night-place, the open space, one of many,
enough unusual to the self, awake, but not enough for the sleep to break.
On almost every bed that night, silence slept with a nightmare.
And that beacon stood with a fake approval, so fake, that I doubt,
it was possessed as well.

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