The Night Is When I Write

The night is when I write, when dews and damps do light; When the silence is punctuated with a thought of life and love and death; When darkness is soften by a moon so embracing and full of life. Night is when I write, when specters rise and sit upon their tombs, And dawn shrouds for their brief release. The night is when I write, about those haunted paths, and lives ferried away Too soon, weeping on the distant shore. And night is when I cry for sins so heavy, and repentance too easy too brief. Oh, the night is when I write, and cry, and consider this field of sadness, Sown with old hands. And I would weep all night and never see the day, But the day comes and I wait, for the night is when I write.