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In the still of the night
when all sleep
but the whistling wind
that steals the dark secrets
or the flowing river
that sweeps away traces of deeds
or even that moon
that dares wax and wane
in an attempt to hide
there is yet another noise
slight and shy
of a beat ever so faint
escaping that cold of cement
wherein lies another soul
pulled in by the night
by that which twinkles bright
and lays hearts still
breaths holding deep
and blood in thy veins seize
there in the night
a secret lingers
like the scent of an age
old, wise
as poison
to turn even the nicest of men
into monsters
that greed
for life others live.
This is the secret the night hides
where bodies lay bare
upon bed of roses
devoid of veneers man made
and truth be told
that’s the truth
the bare truth
that sleep eludes
not just a few.