the ghosting hours
To love the night
is to love the dark and not
to fear the shadows
the creeping wind
if it speaks it moans
and whispers of
unspeakable horrors
that they say
lurk in the night, hide in it
flee from the glaring rays
evil things, twisted things,
devious dark things that
haunt houses and tap window panes
and make hearts go
Boom-boom, stutter
a quickening terror
covers clenched
palms sweaty
staring, staring
out, beyond the confines
of four walls into
the seemingly endless blackness
that coats and envelopes the world
then the gone moon light half
illuminates
as the clouds shift, a sliver
a sliver enough to see-
(to love the night is to love the dark. to love the night is not to fear)
-the specter in the garden.