Night Poetry
The world is quiet,
she trembles on the edges of perfection.
Subject to the madness of the moon,
if only she was full tonight.
I could spend eternity exploring this
this quiet. The bewitching hour
is my very playground, but tomorrow
the world will forget. She quiets,
dimmed by words she wrote.
"I once danced in moonlit streets,
where children laughed to a yellow moon
but the eyes that watched, held both
smile and sneer."
That was too much, she was filling
up the quiet with the words, the buzz
began. For it to abate, she took refuge
with a monster. Then she fed him, ignoring
the sign, "Do not feed the animals"
Sheltered him, made him lust for more.
Now she fell to the power of words,
"I made poetry from conversation
but then, silence, impregnated with
memories, those words."
"Hush." The night whispered back
"My secrets," they said, "mine."
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