Dusk's Final Triumph; the Coming of Night

Night

Shadows do so often take,

afternoon promenade

amongst the byroad of

the idle abbey.

Passive, dim, mindless men.

See no presage.

Innocent, seemingly once

as the monks.

These men take to hollow saunter.

Who be these men?

The epitome of heaven’s sorrow?

The bowels of wretched hell’s anger?

Empty skulls. Hath they a care?

Who be these wander’s?

Reviews

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Your poem expresses wonderfully a haunting voice of the
falling curtain of night with darkness as a feared emotion.