At a slow pace I find myself,
Although I'm not entirely sure I was looking.
This dark figure must appear strange
to the natives, a beast skulking around
at a peculiar hour,
Framed by deep dark trunks
and irony cold moonlight which streams
through the leaves and spills onto the earth.
The beast has reached his destination,
His drinking hole, a place to sit and delve inwards.

The air is thick and aqueous,
The lake is smooth and aerial,
The water moves in a slow tide,
The sound begins to sharpen,
The faintness of an ocean of noise,
The unrevealed figure in a an unrevised place,
The unperturbed world in an unceasing mind.

No longer myself i feel the knife sharp breeze
as it laces through my fingers so intricately,
The witching hour, familiar like an old friend
yet surprising like a new friend.
The sun will come up eventually, it has to.
It doesn't bother me, the creature just prefers it here.
He enjoys the warmth he finds in the night,
the mystery and the senses that you can find
in the swallowing black.

The beauty of dark light that dances like smoke.
No more daylight.
No more daylight.