The Spirit of the Night

In the time before the worlds, where only darkness cast its solemn eye, and never a whisper of hope, or love or human thought dared interrupt the eternal solitude of night.

I was there, I alone, in darkness, of loneliness there was no thought, nor envy, nor fear – only the endless stretch of sable night through all of the forgotten worlds that never were.

From whence this feeling for more, ever more, not thought of love of companionship – but eternal night so blessed and chill and cold.

But whence these thoughts of another to share? How can it come to this – that I eternal being of endless fathomless, eternal breadth do despair to see or share a thought with another?

Care I for some warm place of remembrance – of times spent together, of closeness, tranquility or heartfelt desire to embrace?

I – I am an endless stretch of darkness, stretched betwixt star and star – the eternal night, a close embrace of darkness, a kiss of soothing winds, no longing, no loss, or terror might enter here – surrounded by my eternal shroud of darkness and no whisper of things not here.

From whence a startled thought to tend, to heart or grieve for loss? Not here, not here – never within this fabric of sable night.

No distance too far but my eye might know it, no speck a distraction from eternal solace. From where this thought of another, to embrace within this shroud of night?

What fear, or terror – or brightened sword of calamity to bring – not here, not within this sable fortress of the dark.

Whatever fell deeds might await, I will not rush thenceforth to embrace another, to loss, to ruin, to destruction – I will not rush.

Let me my eternal sea of darkness glide – and no eye but mine divide the night, but send me not hence a bright spirit, one whom I love. To loss, to grieve, to pray.

I am the demon, about me swirl not shadows but dancing forms – of night, of night, and dancing yet, my eye to please, to enjoy.

Never twixt me and my eternal realm send none to kill my joy – I am night, I am sable, and dressed in it I lie.

From whence then this preternatural light, from here, or whence it came? Did I beckon, did I call – not I, not I, from whence then comes this light?

Let me slide, let me slide, within the river of the night – to obey, my will, and only mine – the night from hence I pray.

Let my covering be the eternal night, to clothe me and to hide – not once let my eye know the light or from hence I will it crave.

The light, the light – ‘tis much to bear – please carry me away. Take my eternal clothing then – and bring my night to day.

From whence come you, eternal light – and provocateur of night? From whence come you to wrest me out from nights eternal grasp?

Break me down, break me down – let my body be for naught – let my heart be broken as you wish, and my mind to the stars cast.

What will you now, eternal light, what will you from me take? To break me down, break me down – my servant yours to make?

Let me rest in eternal tranquility – betwixt star and star, and when the last star might die – then I am all that remains.

[edit on 28-7-2009 by Amagnon]

Beautiful!

We must surely know each other for you just wrote about me and the night.

Seriously, I suspect I am seeing your words in a way you didn't intend. Still it is beautifully written.

Two minutes and half a bottle of whiskey to write - but this is a beautiful poem.

I swear that poetry does not come from within us - I know these aren't my words - they come from somewhere else.

[edit on 28-7-2009 by Amagnon]

reply to post by Amagnon

Two minutes and half a bottle of whiskey to write - but this is a beautiful poem.

LOL! I started to write "Don't despair, just turn up a bottle of something. Fixes the night for me...at least sometimes". Erased it though...didn't want to make light of what for me, and perhaps you and others is such a lonely time.

Wherever it came from, you should tap it often.

beautiful!!!

the spirit of the night you have spoken.

I will read it again...

I used to write poetry prolifically - considering it took me minutes to write a poem - I would start, not knowing where it would end - then when it was finished I felt I couldn't touch it.

When you write and feel that editing is desecration I think that you cannot claim ownership - it belongs to the human soul - or spirit - or whatever it is that connects us to our inner selves. It is not for us to critique it - if it is imperfect, it is because it was intended to be so.