At night the park is a parody of friendly day time <br />A quiet, contemplative bench in the shady corner <br />becomes the tonsil of a the gaping maw of pitch black. <br />In this light (or lack of) we are not birds of bees <br />or butterflies wanting to play games with the breeze <br />but instead are moths; helpless, flailing blindly towards <br />a light that more often than not blinds and destroys. <br /> <br />But I; here deep inside if the pitch black's grasp, <br />within striking distance of his bottomless throat, <br />I feel comfort...dependence? <br />Upon the soft, frozen nails of grass my feet crunch <br />softly, softly, lest the beast awakes. <br />Maybe if I dance for him I will sate his icy rage, <br />and peace will appear to those of us who wait where the dogs are at daybreak. <br /> <br />Perhaps if the monster stirs from his sinister slumber <br />it will end quickly: devoured silently by the night, <br />slipping away as if the dew had never bee shaken from grasstip by footfall. <br />Or maybe it shall be prolonged, a senseless torture in <br />a sensual embrace of unknown and incomprehensible. <br />So I sit on a park bench and wait for the sun to rise.<br /><br />Guy Carter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pitch-black/
