Night Poem

I love the night and all the damage it can do...

Math in leaves tries to speak, but you hit end note.
And nothing but witches are let loose, in your wild
Succulent dream. Air spins faster than you can think,
twirling like high society women, who take their time,
no, that's a terrible comparison.

I've watched by candlelight near-dead men eat slugs
On your Christmas morning. No that's not it...
I love how you reinvent all the mistakes you make in the night
Into leaves of love for future daughters concatenating
In raw putrid daylight.

The night brings mistral auras and cruel delights.
To be fucking these last darkberry bights...

I think that's it.. here comes trouble...

Oh, joy, it's Night.

The Quiet Ones

All was white,
with no shadow that he could distinguish.
Light came from everywhere;
it was as if he was encased in a cubicle of starlight.
He lay flat on the cushioned floor, staring up into the brightness,
soundless, motionless, the drugs now transporting him
into the darkest realms of calm. Everything was
heavy and light at the same time:
his body seemed inseperable from the room.

If he tried to scream, all sound would be pinched in his throat,
burn there with the silence, the deafness of a thousand roaring suns.
If he tried to reason with them, his thoughts would stir to a quick frenzy,
like leaves and debris in an autumn cyclone.
In fact, though it was unbearable, all they did was watch him,
but with looks that penetrated all his feeble defenses.
They had no faces, no bodys yet. They glared at him from everywhere,
from nowhere, with dagger thrusts. And then the lights blinked on and off,
in each frame of darkness he saw them flash closer, amorphous, red-tinted shadows.

And then the lights were out and they engulfed him.
Madness reached its zenith; his thoughts were
a scatter-storm of dissonance– a mindscream.
He was being devoured by the Quiet Ones.

He was one of them forever, now.