The rocks were the rocks of nighttime
though the evening had just begun
Draped in fleeting bloody shadows
of those tail lights on the run.
The books were the books of nighttime
wisdom hidden, words unread.
The bottles, drunk with nighttime
broken soldiers on the bed.
The stars
are of powdered nighttime
Spilling up onto the gloom:
Rising buoyant through the slinking dark
Infiltrating my room.
Sleepless hours, choked with nighttime
writhe in endless knotted coils.
In the carpet herds of nightmares
graze on fertile, fearful soils.
Black on black is clearly written
that the dawn will never come:
Undead mutant ghosts of daylight
have consumed the spotted sun.
Daniel M. Dobkin
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