The night's black,
Ebon that's soothing to some,
For others, succor it lacks.
The air's humid,
Dew that's refreshing to some,
Viscid to the ones who're looted.
Robbed of their lucidity,
Their thoughts, a crystal
Melted by the heat of the black coal; the night.
What really is night?
A blissful end or a beginning to a new fight?
A blank, dark canvas or a breathtaking, silvery site?
Maybe a silent walk,
Through the cloudy boulevard,
The wondrous luminaries, the vast galaxies.
Maybe an intoxicated bubble,
Whiskey kisses and touches,
An invitation to trouble.
Perhaps a dried tear drop,
Stained cheeks, choked gasps,
A conversation with the absent; the gone.
Maybe a dive into a scarlet pool,
Crimson that drips from pens,
When hearts brim.
Perchance a game,
Of hide and seek,
With fiends you can't tame.
Or maybe, just maybe
A mellow ballet,
Under the gentle moonlight,
No care for life and its plight.
A/N:
In case you misread it, it's fiends (monsters) and not friends.
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Symmetry
Poetry"There is Sun and storm in every blossoming. That is where the poetry lives" All rights reserved to @destellos_, 2016.
