Becoming The Night

Ron Koppelberger

Becoming The Night

Modesty faced the depth, the level of dreaming consistency unto the realms of shadow and clever excuse; he wore an excuse for an evening-tide penance, the wish of eternal darkness, borne in dark tomorrows and sightless dawns. He was becoming the night in slow stages of evolution, the light a bit less than gray, and he was in thrall at the prospect of raven’s eyes and ancient owls roosting in night shadow, waiting for the hunt, the silhouette of arcane direction and wizened intrigue,
An awareness stole his attentions and in that moment of heightened divinity he saw the sky, velvet, soft, coy in caresses of bequeathed affection. He was becoming the night, by the wont of sleeping wolves and shape shifting convenience, he was becoming the dream, the careful pull at blameless beauty and twilight boarders, the beseeching brandy sipped in intoxicating wills of ecstasy, by bliss and nocturnal guard he was and he wonted the promise, the allness of midnight and summer echo’s of acquiescent essence, ethereal and vast, he was becoming the night.