Night

A slice of light

as the serpent trickles

the shadows, pale

eyes of hunger

shining like diamond chips,

forked tongue, hot

as cinders, tracking

weeds slumped over

with dehydration

for a quivering hunk of life.

 

The thin purple

phalanges of night

hide under the black skin

like bedridden memories

beneath thin wet linens,

while prayer balloons burst,

spewing forth living water

that will seep into every pore

of Creation, and revive

the dreaming dead.

 

A deeper beauty abounds,

but the cursed snake’s hunger

eclipses each anxious flicker.

His silent cries go, unheard,

into the soulless stony sky

of an abandoned garden.

Truth is a cyclical blade.

Reviews

[Kerry O'Connor]

The simple concept of the title has been brought to an unbelievable level of cognizance in every line of your poem. For me, the second stanza is particularly strong in grasping the fearful vulnerability one experiences only during the darkest hours..

The thin purple
phalanges of night
hide under the black skin
like bedridden memories
beneath thin wet linens,
while prayer balloons burst

[Moflo]

The last line is phenomenal! You crafted very profound images in this piece and they really grab the reader's attention. Very nice write.