“There are many shades of night, child, multiple blacks.”
“Black is black, and it scares me.”
The old woman smiled.
“When the cold comes, we treasure the moments before sleep wrapped in blankets, our eyes closing, bodies warming, don’t we?”
“As I said, there are many shades of night.”
There was an undeniable truth to the fact she was a killer. Her eyes spoke of it, smile suggested it, and as for her figure, well… yum. She was everything a spark ignited, everything that made a dark dream dire. Her allure offset her demon. Her magnificence demanded respect. She was a little boy’s nightmare and a grown man’s fantasy, all this and more. Yet like all mysteries wrapped in purple, silk bows, she required exploring. What was the point in excess if one couldn’t partake of it? What was the point in deliverance if one had never needed delivering? I partook, she delivered. I lost, she won.
Peering through the visor of another darkened street, I tug a collar up and a hat down.
Eyes peer from the bushes, fences, dark, waiting as spacecraft lights reveal a path stretching beyond my comfort zone. The eyes are aware and sense my weakness. Taking a deep breath, I run.
A false dusk descends this eve
Promises in eyes
As ghosts of our past close in
You’re never alone in love
Made real these dark thoughts
Plucked from mind
Hung to dry
They drape across my conscience
Seeking to obscure
When did we lose what we’d already lost
Days and nights blending to one seamless malaise
How did the fabric rip when stitched so tight
Melancholy raindrops playing our song
Did the sun drop from the sky
To mire in subterranean depths
Or was it me that slipped between the cracks
When least I expected it; there was no crash
I’m pulling up trees whilst thinking them weeds
Seeds of an unseen God set to fester
Just losing my mind without knowing why
But I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m ready
Or stuck on repeat as the moon gently shimmers
Seeking to reassure, massage the mind
Sunless, the world’s turned sunless
Good job I’m built for the night
Despite the winter cool,
melodrama of the mania
that surrounds and inveigles,
this fungal city continues to deny,
to suppress and irritate,
provoke and patronise.
Although the window glass
makes mirrors of the man I would be
all it suffices to remind
is I am not.
Yet, within the dimming dusk there is hope,
a modicum of allowance,
acceptance of myself and others.
When the wind turns,
the nightmare grows darker
a sheen of polished jet,
then perhaps, just perhaps,
this wicked city
will release me.
Energy efficient, they say,
The subdued streetlights offering agreement.
A night world of lighted corridors has vanished,
The cities veins strangely diminished,
Replaced, instead, by an ominous darkness.
Less jovial in their environmental obligations,
Insipid streetlights barely illuminate my way;
The world seems less safe for it.
Like a fog, I pass others,
But whether they think the same,
Who can say?
Each face is as blurred as the next
In the murk of the evening,
And I fear for finding my own street.
The stars glitter above offering an ancient solution;
It makes me smile,
But I am no astrologer.
I might walk these streets forever,
Or at least until the dawn.