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Night’s Whispered Breath

by Lori R. Lopez

What lurks within the call of Night,
that elusive thrill of darkling tides,
of hidden secrets
encountered past Midnight’s toll?
Beyond the gearworks of the
clockworld Metronome,
the sun-wheeled scheme of things my heart
seems reluctant to obey.

A lifelong yearn; a daytime spurn!
Drawn to the arcane clandestine hours,
the shadow-lair of Nocturne...
this magnificent macabre madness that
lures me like oddness and quirks
appeal to an eccentric nature, my out-there
flair, the whirly-giggles of a creative soul.

Night’s whispered breath entices me
the same, tickling my dark side,
flirting with my sixth sense of spookiness.
The darklit flame we children of
the Night may share that refuses to
extinguish, unlike some trappings of youth.

We cannot shed or shirk
what is part of us, deeply ingrained
like black threading vines woven through fabric;
an umbral layer behind a painting’s surface;
the Universe behind the glare of a blue
sun-shiny sky. We feel that presence, that
magnetic pull. As sunrays blind and bake,
we dream of gloom, thunderclouds, Night.
Where we belong. We glow under
moonbeams, starry heavens, black and white
Chiaroscuro contrasts. We echo
the resonance of shadows and streetlamps.
Connect with uncanny eldritch depths;
the embrace of a forest,
of myriad mysteries and stirrings.

I will not regret moments spent out of
touch or sync or tune, existing apart
from the daily grind, the schedule
of normal activity.
Catching rare glimpses of
a toxic corporate-industrial atmosphere
overwhelming the planet, choking life
by massive amounts of poisons, plastic,
chemicals, nuclear waste,
exhaust fumes, concrete, war.
Instead of thoughtful reverent acts,
well-planned intentions to fit in, adapt
to the natural world around us better.

How I wish to see such evils vanquished
in my lifetime, animals and the environment
cherished when next I venture out in the
harsh light of Day under a wide brim,
full body coverings, a face-mask against
infectious disease... the hazards of foul air.

I much prefer the whispers of Night.

Copyright © 2020 by Lori R. Lopez

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