The Pull of Night.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 04, 2018

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Submitted: July 04, 2018



The Pull of Night.

The Stars glistening, full, brightly, churn Imaginations fervid motions,

though here alone I sit, as usual, here alone, here nightly.

But Attentions' eye, can in ponderous movements stir,

yet with Patients' interventions, can add one hundredfold more to serve.

Ah, but here the cloud-shawled question, which round reason whirls:

to stir to what purpose, what end?

None but to plant mesmerisms in imagination, and there to blooming grow?

And this, this the only offering where once there was a friend?

But no, no questions to ask, for intellects' prying, though thorough, though complete,

can so much arid puzzling end with, and without a kindly friend to meet.

But the pull, as sitting alone and quiet, at that dark end of a day's span,

can give such promise, such excitation, that Resistance barely can withstand.

Yet the difficulty here's not Night Time's imaginings' but the absence it's temptations fill.

For despite sparkling promises, It's sweet raptures, it does dulled leave, with a cool hearts chill.

So I'll take myself, when sun's full-rising, to wander this town's lit morn,

seek the buds of friendships hand, with open hearted warmth,

and find a place in light of day, in the multitudes of man.

Nights are for dreaming within our sleep.

But caution we must bring, when caught are we in wakeful-night's dreams.

Else, as if down a well darkly, we may find ourselves, too alone, too cold, too deep.

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