Not Until Dusk
Not Until Dusk
By Tony DeLorger © 2012
Not until dusk my sweet,
till those sharp elongated shadows
grasp remaining light like bony talons,
edge ever closer to the last remnants cringing,
pale and wan in the lifeless emptiness of dark.
Then, in the wake of sleeping death,
the creatures of menace enliven the shadows,
stretch sinewy limbs and awaken the hunger,
to scan the desolate landscape of light-less past,
and claw at the possibilities of dominance.
Until that blue luminous mist
parts the seeds of wanton death,
all withdraw into the lost shadows,
still like stone, breath shallow, clenched.
Then, in the wake of blood
does the night squirm from the cries of suffering,
and the quiet surrender of life in passing,
the cycle born of itself, hard and eternal,
perpetuates dreams of deliverance.
Not until dusk my love,
shall we sit cosy warm by our fire,
gouging a hole in the darkness,
and whispering sweet fantasies
to engage our minds in the game of life.
Outside reality bows to our quiet solitude,
our respite within a shell,
ever-wondering what course we take,
in this game of perpetual illusion.
All the while death hovers within a whisker,
and we so content with our lot,
sight sees not our fated oblivion,
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