Nights. A poem.

Nights

staring into gloom.

A mirror to reason,
reflecting
all your fallibilities
and failing sensibilities.

All your new found
confidence,
blown away
like mist, before winds
of uncertainty.

Your moon is waning tonight.
You are a crescent shell, threatening
to pitch headlong into
the drifting, darkening tide.

Best sleep,

before you persuade yourself

otherwise.

As you slowly sink,
the ever-present gloom
drinks up your half empty cup,
all your remaining light,

and leaves you bathed in

Nights.

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