It doesn’t go away this night.
It doesn’t end up,
in morning’s bright sunny basket.
But crash lands out of the window,
on rainy wet ground.
Several of them: they lurk around.
Bright disguises they wear,
of smokey, caffeinated evenings.
But as the last of light lightens,
unveiled are they all.
It loves X’mas stockings I hear.
The kind Mama filled,
with delectable dairy delights.
To spoil filthy your best-loved memories,
it churns them to mincemeat.
Love: she is said to be mighty.
In arms that hold you close,
the hooded evils they panic.
The wordless comfort of familiarity,
helps tick the hours away.
The moon’s however a partner in crime.
The cunning, plotting one,
with alleys in twinkling stars.
To count the albino a support shoulder,
is an inane impossible fancy.
Trust not but the sublime warmth of day.
When night creeps in,
allow for utter intimidation.
It may leave you then, this evil night,
to sleep till the sun wakes up.
Picture Courtesy: Andrew Smith Gallery