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The Dead of Night


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A closed door offers a peaceful image,
darkness leaping and scrambling across the world,
tendrils stained black flowing with the sigh of the wind,
everything swirling like a great black pot with the lid on,

Open the doors and a new image greets the braver men,
the rustle of hidden demons, their prints stamped on the grass,
the fresh scent of dew misleading any who bear witness,
and even they cannot see beyond the hand outstretched to guide themselves,
as the darkness closes around them, the great banshee known as the wind shrieks in their ears,

The light of the once hidden moon rushes in,
pushing back the evils,
beings of the night retreat,
and even the shadows hold fear,
the cool pale glimmer glistening off the dew dotting the ground,
acting as a beacon, a sign,
of the day that has yet to come



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