The night sails a ship
in the sky of long-travelled dreams
that the Gods of time recite
in star-riddled patterns and themes.
The day has eyes that look
at a wild youth, where night
is of no interest to their immortal
and yet unknown souls.
The mornings are dark,
where eyes are sealed shut
and cocoons hurt in the process
of ridding their burden.
The sun is forever out of reach—
both of its two-flavored horizons.
A divergence exists at the turn
of the latter sequence.
It reflects a desire to fight
against the consistency of the night—
end’s destination on a day’s journey
filled full of light.
The night is good, and the night is sad.
It plays riddles in the sun’s sequence
of the second half.
How known it is that the night is cruel.
At this split of no return, one asks
if day’s past was all of the path.
Moving toward night’s mired stars,
I look to the sun and love this path.