After such a compliment from Seven I could be silent no longer! Isn't she a darling?
The night has long represented fear, the unknown, and death for man. In a universe that may very well be temporary for all we know (and there are many learned men that argue that it is) the thought of there being only nothingness one day can be very discomforting to creatures which are only too well aware of their own temporalness.
I wrote this poem with an uneasy chill though the day was quite warm...
The Coming Night
Dark as fear, older than light
O'er land and sea, through breadth and height
She spreads her pleated, sable skirt
Of things that are and yet to be, she is first
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Relentless as death she bides her time
While kingdoms rise and fall, petty or sublime
Eternally patient, she is content to sit and wait
Till all be gone, small and great
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Then once again, she alone will reside
In august solitude and empty pride
No Schemes or plans, hopes or dreams
Void of reason, of purpose or deeds
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Many a ship's captain with wheel in hand
In an endless sea so far from land
Has peered into the dying light
And in his heart dreaded the coming night
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For into her endless fearsome shroud so grim
Men and ships sail to their journey's end
To eternal night, that final resting place
The Chariot of time hastens all to her embrace
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O, empty night dark and cold
What terrors for our feeble hearts you hold
Beyond reason's horizon you forever lie
Till we bid life's light a reluctant good bye
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And when all is gone and creation be no more
When no man stands at death's gruesome door
And Hades' insatiable maw is finally filled
Everlasting night shall be here still
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And whether men go gently into your embrace
Or rant and rage against their cruel fate
We watch and mourn their pitiable plight
And await our own journey into the dying light
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On a clear sultry summer night
Stars twinkle and sparkle in sheer delight
Pin pricks of light in the black dome of night
In their struggle to remain shall also lose their fight
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They too shall one day fade away into the night
When eons have flown and time itself has grown trite
Then it will keep a wary eye on the night
And ponder its own precarious plight
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For when all is gone and creation is no more
For what purpose will time serve to keep the score
When nothing there be to mark or sight
Time itself shall slip gently into the coming night
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-Seen it all, done it all, can't remember most of it-