Dead of the Night 

by Emily Alice DeCicco

With the sun setting,
the colors too will set.
Residing only in the homes
where artwork fills
the empty spaces, where the
candles light cannot reach.
Still the river stirs
and while you cannot see the white-
foaming ripples crashing into
abandoned wooden planks,
they are still there. They are

still there like the
Satanic faces hidden in
the painted forests in their home
of all places.

 

Still the flowers bloom – dare I say -
without the shining sun.
To a man’s surprise,
the flowers do welcome
a moment of the sun’s reprise.
In the quiet of night
they soak in the air like
the first time being alone
with a newly-won prize.
Even on the nights where
the light of stars can’t
break their way through
thick, dark clouds we still
seem to find the light in
each other’s eyes.

Should it be such a feat?
To see such beauty without
any sun to reveal your
lips indentations and
the red flush to your cheeks?

 

The earth spins so I
can see you come alive.

The earth spins so I
can see you come alive
in the dead of the night.