The streetlamps dawn a dreaded silence
The humid clouds of mist drag their unwoven
Chains and engulf what touches them.
The night is fresh, new on this day.
And the streets still busy with feet of the
Living.

Hours pass; the mist thickens, condenses into a
Shower slightly.  Looking up to the lamp again
The rain passes my view and the rain light fixates
On a violet spectrum.  The roads are clearing, people
Of ignorance blissfully returning to their castles
And loved ones.

Vision blurs.  The falling rains sting my eyes
As the clouds take me in, surround me.
Paralysed by the cold, I stare again, at the
Lamp, summoning moths to its productive light.
This moth only seeks the light for feeding.  The
Being inside.

The night grows to early hours.  It is turning
Day.  The light turns dim and the moths
Recede to their grassy beds.  The morning hours
Bring further damp to this place, not rain, but
Sweet dew.  The lamp has gone to return again.
As the sun rises.