Isn't it just like the night to whisper

its secrets

when nobody is listening,

to plaster our dreams with absurdities,

when all we want is rest.

to squander on our beggared world its  measureless riches 

and set it afire,

and to laugh its screeching laugh

as we scramble

and stumble to seize and snatch, filling our tattered 

soul with crumbs from eternity

Isn't it just like the night to draw us into its embryonic poise,

only to be hurled across

cavernous chasms

skirting the back wall of reality,

where its army of demons,

and pack of angels

in patience await

to bounce us around 

against the flailing walls

of our hardened self.

And, isn't it just like the night to steer us away from 

the littleness

we grow so wont to...

and launch us onto the wild 

wild sea: sans compass, sans captain,

not even the Vesper in sight;

just us and the ocean,

with all its billowy music.

...and a day slowly rising.