Night

Night must come at last, and it has,
And in its darkness, all we have is
This, the little fire we've made. It
Isn't much. It warms us some.
It cannot be made bigger, and
A wind could come and blow it
Out. I know you know how
Much I love you. I have told
You fifty times. I think I know
That you love me. You never
Say, but never leave. The fire,
In the darkness, flickers. When
We're near it (and each other)
We are warm, but shiver
Slightly, knowing that the
Night has come, and flames
Die down at last.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 57 times
Written on 2015-10-03 at 00:19

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