Master the night in your own private dark,
conjure the squirrel’s horde in a desolate park,
fold the clouds in the grey realm of the lark,
rid yourself of the bonds that bind you still,
to the conventions of life’s pain beyond the hill.
Master the night as it glares at dream’s disdain,
wear the cloak of visibility in the cold dry rain,
fight the good fight with words and never pain,
calm yourself amid the fury of peace’s lean will
while others plague mortuaries with their kill.
Master the night for its darkness bodes us well
among the bracken forests of this desperate dell
where the lonely and insolent meet in holy hell.
The light is part of this open opposite here still
drawing from you life-blood, your hope and will.
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