I stand amongst, under my feet, my leaves of last year's death toll.
The dried old leaves of my own yore, to which belongs the great sea of mold.
Today and tomorrow, as I grow older, there is a shriveling in my head.
With each day next, I'll surely step, my stomach fills with dread.
Softly I stand, plainly in the ground, between the shadow and the trees.
My feet don't make a sound, and my breath is held at ease.
Now, I 'am a Nyctophiliac; a lover of the night,
I have watched false stars begin to rise, and sing louder than the light.