it is night
streetlights engulfed in slippery dark,
pale imitations of starry heavens,
disturbing sleek velvet with lies of light
no one really moves here
they slither and skulk
daring black corners,
skin clinging to damp walls
under thick cover of absence
traces of day's laughter,
so bright in spirit
between careless smiles
now lost in fearful maze
thoughts find no refuge
as imaginations, too, succumb
fumbling amid dark avenues
sticky with pitch
where in this wide chasm
forgotten by the dawn
is the seed?
in what foul dungeon does it lie,
waiting?
didn't you know,
only the greatest here are kept
under heaviest cloak
beneath egregor's watchful eye
for it is the brightest flames
that call forth the deepest dark