The Dead of Night

The dead of night calls to me.

It waits like a woman in the shadows,

Whispers my name.

She calls me to its cold embrace,

The darkness whips against my overcoat, my hair.

It seeks my very soul.

The dead of night waits for its prey,
Silently stalking each man, woman, and child,
Luring with ways unique to itself.
At first glance, the beauty draws them in.
At second glance, an irresistible pang,
Seeking the darkness within each of us.

The dead of night comforts each, in time,

Surrounding, engulfing, and embracing

With fingers of a dark warmth,

She mourns, wails, and silences.

The very thoughts that bring us to an existence

We have named The Dead of Night.

Jennifer Kelbaugh 11/8/95