After they put out the sun,

snuff, one by one, the stars,

I shall come into my own,

wrap woods and fields in a soft blue cloak

no daylight mars.

What burns like the fires of dark?

What shines like the blaze of night?

The blindman sees with his heart,

and the last and dearest gift of the wise

is second sight.

In my arms, like the rocking sea,

I shall cradle all things to rest.

Pain, misery shall not be--

every wound healed, every hunger fed,

the unblessed blessed.

But now I must follow the sun,

act shadow to its foolish beams,

only rise when the sun goes down--

to plunge the world in a nightmare world

of restless dreams.

Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie