#6 The Night
The night whistles silvery silhouettes
To those who persist,
That they exist.
The night, commander, howls;
Shadows loom larger;
They are submissive.
The mist of the moon, a fickle glimmer:
Magpies its very light;
A philosopher calls out for the truth, “Night, enlighten me!”
He is unappeased.
The stars, sprinkled far and wide, crackle, fizz, dissolve;
He is disheartened.
The night is merciful, but stubborn;
A will to gatekeep wisdom;
He is unslaked.
For those who seek it,
Indeed the night petrifies;
For those who inadvertently encounter,
The night is a revelation.
The night is a rose;
Pricks of supernatural;
Preying on colossal fear;
For those who resist plucking at its mysteries,
Uncover its invisible secrets.
The philosopher claims to discern reality,
Penetrating mere illusion.
Yet light eludes.
Must not then day betray?
But if day betrays, then night is right.
A right reality.
For weepers and sorrowers,
The night is serenity.
For the joyous likewise,
The night bequeaths peaceful slumber.
For the contemplators,
The night a wondrous span of thought.
Yet the fearful do suffer,
For them, the night most unenlightening.
Illusory.
The night may never be won.
For the night is eternally knowledgable.
Nay, the fearful eternally oblivious.
That the night is not a contest,
Yet some are still crowned victors:
Victors of the Night.
