Poem #21

The twilight sun has come and gone,
without the rise of the new moon.
The birds sing frantically,
but the light is far from reaching them.
Their panicked twitters and caws echo between buildings,
but not to any human ears.
That species that is the ruler of this earth,
sleeps soundly in their beds,
unaware, and confortable in their belief of a rising sun each morn.
Other creatures begin to pick up on the nervousness of the avians,
and add their cries to the growing cacaphony.
But the humans yet sleep.
No new light begins to shine,
nothing rises above the nearby hills to chase and stretch the shadows.
The fauna starts to panic,
bringing the noise to a higher and louder pitch,
as they fear for the worst.
The sun would not rise,
as it did day after day,
and the darkness would trap them forever.
They huddle away, fear clouding instinct,
as they await whatever is to come.
But right as hope is leaving the last creature,
the shadows begin stretching themselves,
slowly away from the hills,
and the light begins to seep back into the world.
The creatures’ cries turn from hopelessness to gratefullness,
as their fears are hiden away with the darkness.
And as the humans finally begin to awake from their beds,
all they can think about,
is getting the stupid animals to shut up.

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