Night is an artist
The night’s hands are gloved. Its image is unfinished, but there is not enough time. The moon is fading. Nights frail fingers are so cold, but as they move, they sculpt the dawn and the sky. Oh, so beautiful is the night, with its soft fingers. The night is my passing joy! Moments later I am being carried away. I never knew how to love myself. Time ravages on, but even as a ghost I shall be there to love you. The night is ending, and life continues to give and take life. The day’s hands with its iron fingers are damaging my flesh with its cruel rust. The sun gives us its familiar smile, taking us a step further to dust.
