Panther of the Night
There is something about the evening that seals the events of the day.
Something in the air, coolly caressing ones mind and body.
Something that provokes nostalgic tendencies.
Something that persuades one to indulge in fantasies and misgivings
(these becoming increasingly vivid as the night progresses).
Something that urgers, coaxes, and convinces one to
submit, forget, lose oneself amongst its untamed and secretive grasp.
These imaginings are so insistent that one simply must, must, yield.
Obey, the soft, gentle, velvet voice of the night.
Listen, to the mournful moaning of the wind.
Rest, in the warmth and fortification of the sheets and blankets,
allowing them to enfold one.
We, who do not bend our thoughts upon the night,
see it not as the dark and dangerous panther.
Even if we do consider such a beast it is as one
behind the bars of shelter as it is and may ever be.
But some see this animal face to face.
Have little protection against its tormenting talons.
They do not have the bars of four walls and such warmth as we.
For they are in the cage with the Panther, they are its prey.
They take cover within the shadows and stones,
that manifest in the formation of newspapers and underneath shop fronts.
But these are not sufficient to survive such a predator.
Sooner rather than later the Panther prowls and strikes.
They are consumed.
Will one ever have compassion upon these victims?
Of course one will!
Now what will one gain?
