A low fog
clings to the ground,
eerily lit
by a sliver of moon
and itinerant street lights.
The streets are slick with rain,
more a mist
than a downpour.
The pavement blacktop
soaks up the light,
soaks up the blood,
soaks up the sin,
revealing nothing,
except where it collects water
in the potholes
that become windows to the soul.
Night;
that great deceiver,
can be revealer
to the endless line
of tortured souls
that crave the darkness.
Light rejecters,
children of nothing.
Every sound
is somehow amplified,
like the hiss of tires
on the wet road
and headlights cut
through the perfect stillness
like brilliant sword strokes,
that quickly pass.
The engine roars
and fades hastily,
red tail lights
marking their trespass
and the interruption
of the pristine empty
is assuaged
by the return of darkness.
Surely I
am not the only
flagrant sinner
who loves the night.
Surely others
find sanctuary
between the black sky
and the hard city.
The rain is picking up,
with a cold wind;
now it’s no place
for man, nor beast
and I leave
this unlikely oasis
to find my bed
in the small hours.
Before dawn arrives
and I must craft
my illusion
once more;
I’ll dream of the darkness
and the stillness
of the city’s
hidden heart.
HG – 2018
