Death Of Dusk

The sun resigns, bleeds out the vestiges – remnants of the day. Exsanguination edges into twilight: red-brown hangs; upwards darkens: blue-brown, blue-black, death-black, disquiet – furtive, like ghoul-ridden fog. A sombre moon assumes its role, gushing silver-white lymph upon the muted scape – a prequel of supernatural undertones to chill the scene, ice the spine, kill the brain – we have unnerved the very firmament. But now a shadow closing down the globe: dinosaurian cloud shrouds the moon glaze, claims the late hour – declared in a dying crow caw. I, the hidden owl – nemesis of claustrophobic minds – awake! for mammal flesh – fresh, jerking out its warmth in dance of death. Rock-still I perch in sculptured oneness with my crooked night-tree, emanating nocturnal allure. Together we scowl together we play the dark upon the land and sky and mind while you lie as dead in your box. Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010 dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night dark dark dark dark night