The night,
Sometimes it haunts you.
But I’ve always felt a kinship
with the night.
Always could I bare my soul
to that dark liquidity
and drink deep red wine,
Until the moon shed tears of stupidity
All for my simple thoughts delight
For moonlight is gentle,
With tears unassuming.

Oh, but out there,  
where I might float with ghosts
In ethereal air.
Amid darkened landscapes
of purple and blue

The night
It belongs to the poets
To the writers the artists and the lovers.
they are the ones who truly understand
the vast darkness and breadth
of its colorless depth.
For often it is mirrored
in their soulful eyes and lovers’ cries,
It is a wonderfully mysterious thing,
The night,
Sometimes it haunts you.