The gloom benights
and the twilight alights
in the eyelid of the daylight.
But in despite of the night
the darken ferocious fright
is only the anticipation of light,
for the moth knights
to offer all their burning itches to the limelight,
to make love with fire and ignite.
Morning dews are the tears of night
to be translucent and bright,
the sip
of darkness
from the sweet well of the moonlight.
But after the day strike
and the darkness turns white
the day then tunes old again and turns trite.
The twilight once more
extends out to invite,
beckoning you to the insatiable craving of the night.
the black dresses torero's lacerating
the pail bull of the day light
in another vista
of the bloody bullfight,
for another bite
into the chocolate apple of delight,
another strokes of silver fingers
pouring on the skin of
the somnolent sight.
Cooking the soup of the day
in the night's marmite.
