In the night
Darkness swallows things
Whole,
And it's cold
Everywhere.

In the night
The world is empty,
A cruel place
Of hardship and trial

In the night
No living creature stirs,
And all
Seems to have been
Painted, in a frame
Of a life not created
By a trembling hand.

In the night
Silence flies rampant
Teasing the tendrils of
Dreams
That spill forth,
The effortless product of
Imagination.

In the night
My pen comes to life
Perfecting its
Loopy handwriting
Under the cover
Of a tiny light.

In the night
I listen for the
Rampant silence,
Broken only
By my raspy breaths,
Sharp inhalations
Of harsh, forced,
Vital air.

In the night
I am alive.