You know, I was sitting by a tree the other day
Watching the black of the sky turn to navy, nearly entirely fading away;
It wasn't lit anymore by fluorescent salt and a knowing grin...
It was changed to ultramarine, and the stars were weak and thin.
Ashen, like the inside of a dead match- the indescribable complexion,
There, but hard to see, intermingling like a determined infection,
But growing warmer with a funny sort of Russian blue hue poking through its convalescence...,
And stabbed with a golden spear thrown by its daily acquaintance.
Chastising the dark- like a mother- before it escaped into shadowy folds,
But still chased- and embraced- in the lovingly serene mother blue and happy golds,
Smothering my half of the world in endless pursuit of the rebellious night,
And, in the meantime, giving me and my book a helpful light.