Black

A poem black I write at dusk,
alight as empty flame,
drenched in drying torrent rain.
What bright shadow pen I use,
when silence blares its tones,
and walking without motion moans?
Yet still darkness fills the husk,
wills a feast of bleak despair,
suffocating on cool, fresh air.
Dawn, creeping swiftly, slays muse,
flays gently my tired mind,
awake, my pillow I find.