When the night talks, she talks in whispers.
Sometimes the things she says are kind:
a balm at the end of a long day
of being grown-up and efficient and all together.

Sometimes the night says,
"You can put the mask down now."
Sometimes bravery is just
sitting in the silence
and letting your own thoughts
run freely into the space.

Other times, she tells you things you need to hear,
whether or not they are easy to swallow.
And that's okay too.
One of the best things about night
is the space: there is more than enough space
to catch all the truth, clamoring for your attention
to arrange all your captive thoughts in neat little lines
here on the wall of your room.
You turn them over now in your fingers,
examine all their sides--the good and the ugly.

What could you have done differently?
How can you do better when the dawn comes?

I used to say that everything looks better
in the morning light.
I used to say, "Let's wait until
the sun comes back up. Then maybe
none of these things will
bruise us as much."

But I think now, midnight and dawn are
two sides of the same coin.
Where the morning sweeps you up in a rush,
the night pulls at your shoes and glues you to the floor.
She says, "Wait."
She says, "Listen."
"Here are all the important things you missed today. You will need them for tomorrow."

When the night talks, she talks in whispers.
She gives you space. She gives you truth.

And the morning? Well—the morning—She sings.
I suppose this is why things look different
during both times of the day.
One is pinpoint clarity,
and the other—the hope that follows
the mercies we need
embedded in gentle sunlight.

Both.
Both are good.

In the middle of the night
as the breeze soothes the mind.
A lonely owl steps out to the light,
leaving his nest behind.
The moon shines
and the wind blows.
A nightingale hymns
while the gaslight glows.

Nocturnal creative artists at work.
The night fuels their quirk.
Then a sudden cacophony disturbs the air.
A noise no one can bare.
From a distance it can be heard.
It whistles, but it is not a bird.

It slows as it reaches its destination.
Breaking through the peace with its whistle.
The train stops as it reaches the station.

I am like the moon
Covered in many craters
Nocturnal beauty

I awoke to myself,
No one.
Nothing more than howling smoke,
Tiptoeing through the silence of night.
I had dissipated,
A mere observer,
An echo of things former,
Yet no more.
The grace of illumination,
Of substance,
Was more than I could afford,
Greater than my waning motivation would allow.
Truth be told,
It too had dissipated,
Into the cold night,
The dead air.
I awoke to myself,
Nowhere.

He thought of her every night before he went to sleep

Without her, the word "beauty" would be incomplete

Into his dreams, she always found a way

Without her, nightmares ravaged his brain

The nightsky is alike a mighty mansion of the stars which then
twinkle in elegance, beauty and transience until the dawn outshines them in a graceful manner.
As the night turns away from the sun and from her light, danger
in our imagination could await, from the corners of our very mind.
Yet the stars make up a soft blanket, a cover of the calmest of light,
which could bring peace to a soul which is performing a rampage.
All the constilations, all the names and forms which reveal themselves, are but a heavenly spectra for those who are nocturnal.
Or for those, whom have meet the cruel fate to be allergic to the natural, straight forward, warming and blissful sunlight.
There is no soul with no protector, in the nightsky such would be
a bright,piercing star, standing proud,manifest its location is over you
Holding many wonders, the beauty of the night comes with shooting stars, which at times shortly sweep over the heaven before fading.
Wishes are made upon, hope fills their hearts, for a better future
or a fulfilment of their desires, tangled up within the depth of mind.
Night becomes bright once the moon shines, in its fullest posture.
Becomes dark once the rainclouds drive near, calling in thunder.
But most importantly, it is a time of rest, from all this earth beholds


~ Umi

A brief gander out of the window sills
The dim candlelight flickers ever so vividly and lingers through
The fire awakens and its children, embers of the future withdraw
They take off and flow with the midwinter breeze

Amongst the ample tracts of land, amongst the foggy scenery of ice and snow
The amber extract of lightwaves pierce through the nocturnal blanket
The lilac sky merging with the cinnabar, umber and indigo
The soldiers, clad as such, marching through the grassland

And thus spoke the soldiers
Embedded in the gloom, marching through the dusty carpet
Consolidating rigid blocks amass
Caressing the cold, serene scenery in all its idyll

The sparkles dwindle at dusk
A solemn encounter between life and death - the soldiers collect them all
Many sparkles accumulate and dissipate when heaven takes in their children
Flourishing in tufts that lit the charcoal sky, a glistening canvas

I found myself amidst the elation, as I gazed amongst the starry abyss
The future stared back and smiled as I found myself frozen in time
The timeless idyll is ever so frightful, but a bliss as it fills my locket
Moonlight pass, timescape halts, landscape falls, shadows conquer

Time is ever so vague when the silver arises
The mirror of the soul, the children of the dim candlelights
They flicker ever so lively into eternity
They flicker and return home.