the night

another poem

I am one with the night,
like an artist, with canvas stretched tight,
like a painter that leaves his first mark,
this is how it is to run with the dark,
an expectation of what lies ahead, 
dreams and visions fill my head,
this is where I love to be, in the void, alone and free,
I hide myself among the shadows,
 deep within the forgotten hollows, 
away from the day, and all its sorrows,
 but the painting must end, come to be finished, 
the night, the freedom, is all diminished, 
the artist leaves, goes on his way,
 for here comes the cold hard day.