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By The Black of The Night and The Pale of The Day (Poem)

The rain pours
At quite hurtling speed
With vigour and valour
At the pavement.


The pavement, upon suffering this attack
Musters a hue most crepuscularly, vividly black
In its defence shall I state no tangible lack
Of the vigour and valour
So deadly applied
By the rain.

The window is obscured by raindrops aplenty
Each its own entity; thrown at the window
As if were expendable – but why ever not?
Only to dissolve when the weather returns hot.

For now, ‘tis cold and the dreams of the summer
Of last year are sold; at hapless low price but to whom is unknown
Oh, what became of those seeds so wistfully, carefree-sown?
Oh, may I never know.

Or not, of course, for I turn most harried and hurried,
Hastefully, indeed, away
For the rain pours
At quite hurtling speed
With vigour and valour
At the pavement.

Blackened roofs of slate, enlightened, dominate my sight
My pupils, dilated, despairing, frightened, become victims first
Of the absence of the light
And harried, hurried, hastefully I bolt
Into the abyss
Of the night.

For my home is here and here I shall stay
Until the bleak blue dawn has dragged me
Away.
Be it the cycle of nature or the devil at play?

I shall care not.
For here in the peltering and petering wind
And the rain pouring vigorously, gallantly at its
Fate
And the grand black abyss 
of the night
Shall I
Forever stay.

I shall care not for the light of the day
For I have borne sight of the darkness at play
Like a puppet is our world at night; and
Tauntingly, tantalisingly...yet tentatively tugging
Upon the strings
Is the being...of the night.

To thee, being of the night
Extend thy wings, taketh flight
Above all there ever is or was
Amid the silence
And quiet compliance
Of your dominion.

Though in my head I question your existence;
You remain at heart of mine through sheer persistence.
In short, you are a mere figment
Of my imaginative mind alone.
Simply a seed of thought so wistfully sown – 

For now, ‘tis cold and the dreams of the summer
Of last year are sold; at hapless low price but to whom is unknown
Oh, what became of those seeds so wistfully, carefree-sown?
Oh, may I never know.

To thee, being of the night
Extend thy wings, taketh flight
Above all there ever is or was
Amid the silence
And quiet compliance
Of your dominion.

For my home is here and here I shall stay
Until the bleak blue dawn has dragged me
Away.

The rain pours
At quite hurtling speed
With vigour and valour
At the pavement.

Blackened roofs of slate, enlightened, dominate my sight
My pupils, dilated, despairing, frightened, become victims first
Of the absence of the light
And harried, hurried, hastefully I bolt
Into the abyss

Of

The Night.

Literature Poetry


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