She is more than just when she is here or when she is away
she is night in a world where it could never be day;

The force of the world, the force of the blowback when the earth would sway
Warning the burn to stay away,
Small fires on fire
burning lives on a pyre

the raven above, the condemned below
She shouldn't have whispered
she ought to know-
the ink on the page is blurry, though
a journey in its depths
A world knee-deep in thick India ink
now sunk up to its breast

And before the drowning came the will to swim
and before the fall, the flight
An eternity trapped in flesh captured in the rim
torture and prison between love and plight

And, oh, what a treacherous night,
for when the wind blows,
it blows without reach,
nor wane nor warn
to the furthest beach

Where the moons kiss the stars
closed care on opened scars
The wheels are turning in no direction
unaware that they are part of cars
So to the human; the universe
a play millions of times rehearsed
and while they speak of beings more well-versed
we bury our young in cloths and parties, cold, terse-

Terse is the judge when its judgement is
by the sun or the sky or the problem kids
What not to see is all what more to say
no use to wipe the ink away

and so the book is thrown
Jostled down the stairs and out and into the hands of people with and without care

The way the wind so shakes the shack
a brick on the bay, a structure of that
which begins and ends
with laughter and then with death to old friends

The story that lived, the story that died; the one which failed to record who had survived
The end was there on a ghastly ship
the crew amongst which floated gauntly

and though they were brave,
their souls were concave,
And the depths below them read as their new heights

New heights for souls injured in injurious fights
the plight of such was love and light,
and she was not the day, for she was the night

-n.a.