COLD BLACK MIDNIGHT

COLD BLACK MIDNIGHT

At the end of my longest day, when sunlight disappears,
I weep this slow and sad parade of blue and silver tears.
Tears that coat the velvet lining of clouds that hold me tight,
And bring me slowly to the edge of another cold black midnight.

Night that drains the color from a dark man’s face,
And brings the ravens from their perch somewhere out in space.
Night that brings the fever and the everlasting chill,
Snuffing out the scent of hope and lunging for the kill.

A night can last forever when you go through it alone.
A hollow place of vapid space, a king without a throne.
A screeching hoot owl in the trees, a strange bone-chilling breeze,
A strange sadistic madman who loves to taunt and tease.

When night is your companion, you ply your solemn trade,
Like a lonely hunter, with bow and arrow splayed,
Ready to shoot out the moon if the loneliness will just subside,
Like a crazed and dangerous boatman on the tortured waves you ride.

When night is your companion, there is no turning back.
A cold and concrete dead end street, a lonesome cul de sac.
A bed that kills your aching spine, a chalice of the cheapest wine.
A sad and strange sensation of running out of time.

It’s a stormy cold black midnight, coursing through my veins,
That floods the rivers of my heart with its bitter acid rains.
Signaling the end of something, the death and the demise,
Stretching out in languid stillness across the weeping skies.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2011
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED