The Night Phantom

When bathing in the gloom-filled night sky,
No one would expect to spot creatures more acquainted with these hours of darkness
Than bats and yellow eyed cats.
And perhaps even, for the superstitious,
Ghosts breeding new tales and turning homes into haunted manors.
But in fact, there was a creature who was intricately familiar with the Night;
Its sometimes glitter like stars hung in the air,
Its damp humidity and breeze,
The occasional night drunks and passerby’s
The uncanny, dismal aura of it all.

Perched on a window,
Was a somber and statue like figure,
Indolently breathing in the vastness, the emptiness, the profoundness
Of a time of day she deemed as mysterious
as
The Ocean’s treasure pit,
The humans roaming above it,
And the Hand that constructed them all.

Not quite part of the living, nor among the dead,
She was her own kind of “alive”; endlessly seeking for a meaning.
Pursuing paths she prayed would give her purpose,
That none offered her, or even considered she would be on the quest for.
She searches not the cliché meaning everyone seemingly does,
But that of her belonging to such an intense and apprehensive world she does not fit in,
Of the Night being the only one to bring her bliss.

In her mind, she explores Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over The Rhone
And a tear, as it so rarely does, rolls down her cheek, dropping into her palm.
Recalling the tragic trait the painter and I share.
And before I even grasp the extent of what that means,
It is dawn and the night behind me,
Gone,
Without having unloaded me of my sorrows.
And yet,
I shall seek the moon tonight again.