Nocturne
It is late; late into night, no moon, no stars in sight,
the cat is curled-up in her chair, curled-up warm, and tight.
But there is an eerie silence, here, alone in this dark,
shadows are lingering; the air is bleak and stark
as if Death is mocking me and my lonely plight,
alone, here in the darkness and this ever haunting night.
Night, though, has her own tricks she can play.
She coddles me in her arms; hides me in her ark,
keeping the unseen at bay, wiling me with her mystical charms.
Oh, Night will woo you for a while, it’s her subtle foreplay;
then, she’ll let Sleep take you over, Sleep with her Siren way.
Night, though, won’t stay, she’ll leave as silent as she came,
without a passing word to say, abandon you with no shame.
She’ll give-in to her own daunting death, even she can’t delay;
for the passing of Night will be with the dawning of another day.
Anthony M. Majahad
May 2, 2006