Ετικέτα: Night

Black

Black,
in myriad forms, a cloak of endless hues,
Atramentous shadows bleed into the edges of my sight,
the charcoal sketch of a dying day,
a dying planet,
a dying world,
its ember-soft remains against the duskiness of the sky.

Coal lies buried deep,
smirched by the weight of time,
inky veins,
midnight rivers of what’s forgotten,
flowing beneath the crust of eons.
A pitch-thick silence hangs,
funereal smoke drifts,
from singed dreams and ashen hopes.

Sable night, swathed in swarthiness,
an obsidian sheen reflects my sombrous heart.
The niello of stars burns faintly,
silver smirks against my melanotic skin.
And the raven, with wings of denigration,
cuts through this inkiness,
a fleeting shadow across the moon’s pale face.

Swartness lingers,
tar-like,
clinging to breath and thought.
It is the soot of forgotten fires,
the ebony truth that loiters
long after the flame.

Once, the crows spoke of melanism,
their voice a funereal hymn to the sloe fruit’s bitter bite,
the kind that stains lips with its essence.
Even the smoke whispers of this:
the ink of words left unwritten,
the obsidian shards of dreams.

There is beauty in this world,
in the raven-black canopy of stars,
in the singe of forgotten coal,
in the darksomeness of wild things.
Ebony branches claw at the sky,
by a dusky sun that fades into jet-streaked horizons.

Darkness is not emptiness;
it is the fullness of mystery.
A sombrous smoke that curls upward
like a prayer,
unanswered,
but still offered.

Black is a world entire,
a raven’s cry in a midnight forest,
a smirch that marks the soul
and makes it whole.

Midnight Garden

Dreams were rising from the earth beneath,
Softly sown from the seeds I breathe.
Moonlit whispers filled the midnight air,
Spectral visions dancing with exquisite flair.

Ghosts of memories lightly tread,
Over the ground where my fears were fed.
Through the mist, their figures were clear,
Each shadow, laughter, each light, a tear.

The soil rich with what might have been,
Sprouted sensations, both serenity and sin.
A garden of might, of could, of when,
Woven deeply in the den of my pen.

Among these dreams, so wild, so free,
Crept the tendrils of a darker tree.
Its roots entangled with my heart’s faint screams,
Blending reality with the dark side of dreams.

As the stars faded in the coming light,
The horizon blurring the edges of night,
My soul, a portrait painted in despair,
Found solace in the morning’s golden glare.

But the sun set once more, and shades grew tall—
My dreamscape turned into a haunting hall.
And there, in the quiet, thinking someone might care,
I resumed the long talks with my nightmare.