The Night comes in...
I throw the day away; out the window it goes.
The Night comes in slowly,
like a shy stranger,
afraid to make herself known.
But, there’s no hiding who she is,
or how far she can reach,
or the power her hands hold to turn everything off,
Dreams of company, of compassion, of difference.
The Night comes in,
and we attempt to escape her,
dreaming ourselves into glistening lands,
filled with light and cheer.
Seeking refuge is futile;
almost as ineffective as finding shelter
—be it under a rock,
inside four walls,
atop a tree,
or in someone else’s arms.
The Night comes in, relentless,
her face embroidered with stars,
her cool hands calm daily nightmares,
or squeeze with frozen fingers nightmares out of men’s hearts.
The day is gone, and the Night comes in…
would you let her nest in your chest?
All the shades of black are present, all the hues of whites too.
It is our choice to see the tones of grey.
B.M. Whitton, 19/03/2021
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