At night the park is a parody of friendly day time
A quiet, contemplative bench in the shady corner
becomes the tonsil of a the gaping maw of pitch black.
In this light (or lack of) we are not birds of bees
or butterflies wanting to play games with the breeze
but instead are moths; helpless, flailing blindly towards
a light that more often than not blinds and destroys.

But I; here deep inside if the pitch black's grasp,
within striking distance of his bottomless throat,
I feel comfort...dependence?
Upon the soft, frozen nails of grass my feet crunch
softly, softly, lest the beast awakes.
Maybe if I dance for him I will sate his icy rage,
and peace will appear to those of us who wait where the dogs are at daybreak.

Perhaps if the monster stirs from his sinister slumber
it will end quickly: devoured silently by the night,
slipping away as if the dew had never bee shaken from grasstip by footfall.
Or maybe it shall be prolonged, a senseless torture in
a sensual embrace of unknown and incomprehensible.
So I sit on a park bench and wait for the sun to rise.

Guy Carter

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pitch-black/