The pompous gas bag flees in terror of the night, respite granted from its angry rays
Its last faint echoes fall behind the far horizon with a defeated whimper
Sparks of light wink on like distant eyes, set as the watchers of those forsaken
Paled only by the fat gibbous moon taking her rightful place in the sky
The gray lady’s face waxing near full she hang’s heavy in the gloaming
Bearing witness to the penumbral song of the lunatic fringe
Her somber presence, resolute, determined, engulfs all she sees
The strange, the dark, even the wicked, are loved and nurtured
Her caress reaches down and out to them, for them
It shrouds them in her stygian embrace
Until the immoral dawn creeps back
Yet again to cast its harsh glance
Accenting every empty promise
Criticizing the unorthodox
Castigating the abnormal
The rejected hordes
Hide yet again
From the
Sun