Yestreen, the night cried like a flying circus,
with belts of hoots, laughter and howls.
Thumps caved walls like a drum,
seeking full attention in the early morn’s hours.
A shrill would chirm a space,
as a soul would burrow its place to hide.
The moon turned searching spotlight,
bawled mumbling groans like a child gone snide.
Screams were thrown in disgust,
like a temperamental mother in a sunken heat.
A whip-crack tore at the sky,
as though it swore I could never be true or right.
The rain had sounded like flittering lashes
against reddened cheeks cold, beaten and bruised.
It was quiet as though the right words
were not for the night’s embrace to ever be used.
The windows did cheer so wittily
like clapter belting the colour out of a smile.
The sky cried and wanted me home,
although I would return and never leave her side.