Nighttime

Another beer on a Saturday night, after The Bhoys done well. And the firm foundation of yesterday's decisions has subsided to a quagmire. I avoid the mirror of my conscience, it can only show its displeasure with me. And the night moves on, bland in its darkness in the lack of imagination. But really in the living mind, it is just a day that has grown a little tired and is reclining. And the black of the night is just a variation of the colours of the day, and if you are to be afraid of the night, I wonder if you would have to be afraid of the day too? And tonight the vampires and the zombies are waiting in the wings. They seem to know the way that it is supposed to go, and all I can do is gaze unknowingly at their possibility. So the sky has gone to sleep, and suggests that I should ease down, though perhaps I would care to have an argument with this particular nighttime. Astral travel stares me in the face, wonders if I would care to climb aboard, perhaps it was a suggestion from the zombies. And I see the zombies in all that I have loved and are gone, and the beauty cannot be misplaced, it remains and is in place with love. And I think sometimes that to think about tomorrow is to think about a certain death. So I guess I can be scared into thinking exclusively of today. And nighttime is the mystery of the day. Darkly provocative and sexual, putting the emphasis on the self. It has blanked life out in its way, but of course, it is yet to succeed. So perhaps it has thrown the gauntlet down, it has suggested; 'Go on deal with me, show me if you can see through my darkness?