The Night

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The Night

Tonight is black and blue
my face pummeled by so many frowns and curses

The night is shimmering in iridescence
a strident silver
my pockets stripped clean of the golden silences

And the night draws me in with a mesmerizing force
tugging at my loneliness my fears my cravings
tickling at my wounds

The night says it will offer companionship
but will it last for more than a few hours?

The night cries that I will be brave
when I am set free of my shadow
But how long can this last? I wonder
not into the light

The night says I will satisfy your cravings
and feed your obsessions
But how long can I live on
this vacuous junk food?

And the night promises that wounds heal like magic
when the dressings cannot be seen
undressed in the arcane alleys
when the satin flux of neon
puts a gauze upon the sore
and when the bright lights and happy sounds
the carefree attitudes
and the careless people gather
to pay tribute to their brief escape
from the day

Tonight the night calls to me
with a voice that penetrates my clenched fists
time and time again I have sought not to hear

The night knows what sweetness
I have supped upon seeking refuge
it knows where the aches and cramps
of my work encroach
and where my frame is tired and anxious

And the night says come to me
I will make you forget for a while
all the things that made you man
and you will become a god
to the ends of the earth

Crowds will adore you
and you will adore yourself what you see
and even the day will appear to adore you
until of course the day comes again

And knowing telling regretting and rethinking
all that my heart cries to me
has not eased the fever

Some deep yearning comes out
of this inexorable cycle
in answer to my deepest covenants

The forms that break out
jostle and joust
make alignment to express themselves
to burst the straight jacket
I have put upon them

And time turns steadily to dusk
when the forces will leap up
and change my face

The night is scarlet and black
I still have a choice
but my heart is wrenched from its socket
my feet lie in quicksand
my mouth is parched
for the sweet waters

And the night beckons to me
once again

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A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

usaforklift’s Poems (16)

Title Comments
Title Comments
The Night 0
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