Night Comes
By: John Grey

Night comes up out of the cellars,
the gravestones,
the tips of the sagging willow branches.
It's brand new shadows,
unrepentant dark places,
maybe even a soul or two,
getting together,
sharing their bleak resources.

Night as a separate endeavor
wouldn't survive the lighting of a lamp,
the burning of a bedside candle,
but as a cumulative process,
a shared enterprise,
even a good heart must beware.

For night leaves nothing to chance,
mirrors the reach of the day
and then some.
It has fear on its side,
loneliness as a tool,
nightmare as a backup.

Night's born.
It spreads.
It encroaches.
It moves in.
It takes over.
Isn't that the way
you dread things happening


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