Death dies every mourning

It’s almost midnight. Sleep is far ahead, or behind. It’s not time for being bright, as at noontime. Sun governs more than light; much more than it hides. Darkness isn’t just air without light. It’s of swirling consciences, and ugly minds; of little black bugs who eat the kind; of obscure sponges that eclipse the right like dead roses; and of flies who are blind; buzzing up the ear, adumbrating the eyes like dark, discarded hopes, eating up life. It’s almost midnight. Lick the drips eagerly of deadened blight, that death might easier alight. Death is mourning in time of night. Sun, wait not long to light.

September 1969