Night is stranger than day,
The air is quieter,
And it feels like no-one is there.
Even in a house full of people,
The silence causes,
There to be standing hair.
The slightest noise in the dark,
Imperceptible in the day,
Is an orchestra at night.
There is a primal thing,
That runs cold,
Through the veins.
Like a memory just out of reach,
Or a simple sound,
That is burred in your mind.
Something about the night,
Speaks to me deep inside,
Making me want to run and hide.
And yet I still love it,
And long for it,
At the end of each day is night.

©The Pesky Poet

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