Between Dusk And Dawn There Sleeps The Night
Between Dusk And Dawn
A growth so malignant that I abhor it.
A sickness so horrible that when lit –
By the daylight sun it looks foul. . .
Something one finds inside the bowel?
Should I say, that darkness hides this?
Covers it with shades, whatever it is?
And makes it dull, numb and mute. . .
So that it obscures the causative root –
Mind, it seeks victims everywhere. . .
Finding them in every nook and every lair.
And that is why I prefer the nocturnal –
Activity cycle, far from the call –
And notice of mankind, safe and hidden. . .
But, can I say all that unbidden?
Asked only to give a simple shrug,
As though I am an unthinking bug?
The Earth seems to become. . .
At night, without light, I am –
Not aware of any of it at all!
No matter how far we seem to fall.
At night I am blinded by the black. . . .
It is that feature that day seems to lack;
For me. . . the sun shows the grime,
In the daylight one can spot every crime,
So speak to me no more of day. . .
Or of the dreaded sunray!
Ask me no more why I like the night. . .
For I cannot answer without a fight!