Night did not run into Day, nor did he walk. On bloodied knees, battered from unceasing prayers, Night crawled. And try as he might. to fight. to open the eyelids of Morning, he could not. Morning was fast asleep, drowning in the sea of Night’s mares, in which Night was the sole and lonely prisoner. The guards all abandoned. The bars always bronze. The padlocks every time steel.

Night softly wept in silence.

His battle to awaken Morning had been long and he was weary. Night’s eyes fogged over with tears, continually welling up from Despair’s great springs that burst forth from Night’s heart, rent. Night’s strength, spent. Night’s anger, bruised, and bent. Despair’s rivers had forged, forever, crevices in Night’s face.

Night’s moon finally hid itself, too. The pain too great for the man on that moon to look upon. All light, ceased. Night laid down his heavy head and surrendered.

Night, deceased.

Making the way.

For Mourning.

Night’s Final Song.

The laments of The Family and Friend of the Good Night.

Opening the Eyelids of and Awakening Morning.

©2020 Jeanne Whitman all rights reserved