The Night Child

I’ve forgotten how to identify
with daylight of late, for its power seems trite,
almost petty.

It asked for my hand but I wasn’t ready for
reasons I’d quoted many times before.

It called my
judgement poor, a fair analysis,
watching its own
misguided paralysis outscore
my own, weighing fifty stone to
six.

I’ll stick with darkness and stars, answers that live too far rather than be burned by them for kicks.

And then the other children raised under a single sun, tired of it, too. You promised us blue and green, but watered it down to drowned
browns and grey,
and we saw it happen in full view.

You put a clock on prosperity, and if I want to stay up ‘til 2 A.M. skygazing, any curfew is crazy, but to be free of such is a privilege afforded by so few.

I poured my dreams into you, and all you did was shine a light on why they would never come true.

But here comes the night child,
wayward bibliophile chasing
long deserved denouements.

Tell me a story I’ll want to believe; show me dark characters I’ll agree to support, because going forth, I’ve given little but status quos to achieve.

If something brighter surfaces,
you know where I’ll be.

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