Night it turned
Its face away
Shoulder beneath blanket
Stars at play
The restless hour
Now forsaken
Tears dried
Conscience laden.
To await the dawn
As if an execution
Of rising sun
Its light producing
A carpets comfort
Upon the ground
The flowers open
The birdsongs sound.
Why are moments
Sometimes longer still ?
To suffering of man
His thoughts to kill
A turning wheel
Defying time
Night it is
No friend of mine.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: June 14th, 2026 02:46
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 61
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments8
Good write N.
Thanks, always appreciated
Here I hear the preference to light and day from night and darkness. Nicely written
polar opposites, thanks for read always much appreciated
You are most welcome Norman
So true. Let the day shine!
thanking you much appreciated
Most welcome 🙏🏻🕊️
This has a calm, almost resigned elegance to it—night not as drama, but as a weight the mind has to carry.
What stands out is how you turn time itself into feeling: the night stretches, not because it is long, but because suffering makes it so.
thanking you for read always much appreciated
Norman, "To await the dawn / As if an execution" is the image that stayed with me. What a striking way to turn something usually associated with hope into something dreaded. That landed hard, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
thanking you as always much appreciated
The night remains a mystery beyond mere feeling...
and mans greatest fear, thanks for read
The light will always arrive Norman.
Andy
thats true, thanks for read appreciated
great piece on night and day - beautiful
most kind, thanking you much appreciated
most welcome
have a good weekend..
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