When the sun goes down,
Darkness fills the air.
Those healing rays,
That mother sun washes,
With wavelengths of spectral science.
Wither as the horizon reaps its cull of light.
Then we have dark air.
The air that is the night.
A shroud of air for corpses, owls and bats.
It whispers like a thief through window’s cracks
And fills the restless sleeping forms,
With dark dreams and night’s wind tossed storms.
It flits and flutters undergrowth and trees,
To ease the creatures that attend its breath,
And scurry round the rotting forms of death.