It had nothing
to do with the night
my imagination went wild
in illusion I dwelt
reason took flight--
there was no mystery
only the rhythm between hours
the unyielding weight of veracity
the river  water was what it had been
the trees bore the same leaves
flowers drooped in natural sleep
upon the dawn to reawaken
dew would fall on the grass
time knew when to pass
the intrinsic remained--

I was beside myself
the subject and object
the perceived and the perceiver
the observer and the evaluator
the dreamer and illusion-creator
the meddler and puzzler
the experience--translator
the ultimate author
of my own blight

verily it had nothing
nothing at all
to do with the night.