'Tis the night that's right
for reflection. The breeze is soft
yet kind enough to
lift
that lock of hair from your eyes.
The mist; the miasma of the perfect
fantasy that exists only when we realise it's
too late, lingers - then vanishes.
Like the glow from a hundred candles,
the skyline is in embers. Then into your soul, it's
fingertips explore the skeletons in your closet. Each
reaches,
grasps, and
withdraws -
leaving you naked and weak.
It is only now that when your carcass lays
beside, are you able to see weakness. It is
only now
that you can move on.
Raging through your veins,
you can no longer resist the call of the moon.
Somehow, quite unexpectedly, you attain
understanding and peace - all in your room.
'Tis all perfect, and such is the night,
yet somehow, quite unexpectedly, the saddest
song you never knew, is perfect; it's right.
For only, from extreme grief, can strength manifest.
! dug deep in the sand
