As dusk settles into her short lived throne

Night waits in the sky ready to cover the world,

In her utter darkness

The sun fights for those last rays

Clinging onto the orb

Trying to hold onto his lofty reign

But alas night descendeth on the Earth

His shroud covering the heavens

The stars puncture through the inky blackness

The moon rises and gives light to all that prowl

Night reigns with a mighty fist and lingers almost endlessly

Every little shadow is hers

Every cave she claims

As the sun struggles into the sky once again

Helios driving his fiery chariot

Night goes willingly knowing she has left her mark upon this globe

For night has always been...

But always, always, always there is a shimmer of hope in our hearts

And in the world there shines the population with life so vital and

So glorious that night can never truly win

Once night ruled the sky and the very air we breath

with a cold iron first

******* all that was life from the world

But the light has come and with him comes his

Resonating, clear hope into the world and

Into the souls of the people

Light, life. and hope intertwined

O Oriens

O morning star, east rising—splendorous eternal light and sun of justice;
come, and shine among those who sit waiting in darkness, in the shadows of death
— “O Oriens,” Vesper 5 of the O Antiphons

O, when the sun crowns and births,
     when the potshot
          lights, torn through
the east, flood the black earth:
     passing through fenced lots,
          gazing on open sores;
turning over wearied thoughts
     and knocking on locked doors
          while the eyes of men—
sons of Man—remain
     closed,
          like a fist,
or a grasp—so desperate—
     you drown,
          we all drown—
in our own throats, enthralled—pelagic,
manic and churning—the rage
     of the Trojan prophet; your precious parrot’s
          fresh and precious white waste—
may I feed the flies?
     cried the mottled jester, aggrieved
          and underemployed—
decapitated—
     with gusto, as it were—
          in the off hours,
any afternoon—
     when the flies are finally fed—
          when a prophet, rouge
smeared, stirs:

already
          the light  
                   has departed

yet how desperately some cling—
         and how weighted:
                 the wilting reach
of wisteria—
         still
                 waiting.