"Acquainted with the night."

                   Solemn is the quivering  gust that disperses out onto bleak narrow highways, night traffic exudes itself amidst a sordid sprinkling of neon lights and bulletins. The billboard generation waits patiently for it's due turn, to indulge in something quite so magnificent,  so precious and vulnerable, as the swaying branches of a cool October evening. Street lanes and diminishing boulevards untangle now, before the proximity of keen spectacles. What clothes she assembles herself in, throughout afternoon vestibules, the daytime orchids renew a child's dream, with her long delicate lashes, she strolls through the front grounds of the sparkling perimeter. Her sundress worn but never dirty. The heels of her feet, pale and bruised, to that of a bleeding flower, in it's sultry excrement.  Who walks barefoot on the outside terrain, in between patio tables, aligned with glass vases and salad utensils, is one who is acquainted with the immaculate daytime, and all its endeavors.
                      Now for one who has turned, as god's perennial earth rotates, upon it's bold axis, my countenance yields a bleak and grim understanding. It is to within my boundaries, as a man who has sought through his withered years, beneath August pine trees, aside the embalming waters of eastern shore boards, I've grieved through the hidden murmurs that reside among ivory waves, they glimmer immeasurably, distancing themselves between hypnotic sand formations. With the evening at hand, I have deemed a plan, an hourly reprieve into a desolate wilderness of mud and ice. The solicitous darkness that surrounds the midnight side streets, one cannot escape the unbearable solitude that boils within the heat stricken chambers of impending death. Darkness encloses itself, throughout shallow neighborhoods, the drunken screams of a lost existence. It is not I that the city cries to, though I listen. The sodden courtyard eludes itself to the maiming struggles that one endures.
                    To be acquainted with colors, to have exchanged vibrant seasons with merchants, and to have placed passion upon an exclusive plateau. To have sung within a drunken choir of men on Easter, I have witnessed an ageless resurrection through tender eyelids, sat upon urban door stoops in forlorn chambers of a pensive township. Before me, I have looked out from furnished windows, admiring malnourished women and children. I have walked these grounds miserably and hungry, and do not hold me more than accountable, for it is true,  that fenced in rabid dogs will eat you.