It’s not often that I go out past twilight.

I find the quiet of the indoors unnerving, yet the cacophonies

That haunt the woodland in the dead of night

Appear vastly more unwelcoming

To those who are muffled by the stillness of my bedroom.

Instead, I leave before the stars

Have smeared the sky with black,

Concealing the illustrious hues of

Denim, ultraviolet, and indigo.

There is nothing to fear under

The comfort of the setting sun,

As the fireflies nestle to sleep in leaves

And the shadowed predators hide,

Awaiting their penumbral cloak with which

To prowl the reflection of the heavens.

I heard one night that the predators hunt us

As we cozy up beneath mountains of pelt

And the corners of our blankets hug us close.

“What an awful notion,” I thought to myself,

For I, too, cling to my robes as the night trickles in,

And fear the untimely fates of those

Who dare to creep out after dark.

Yet, as the days twitch onwards,

And the nights grow colder,

The moonlight clouds peep through my window

And whisper dirty secrets in my quivering ear;

They keep watchful deep into the dawn,

As though the daily inception of new ideas

Will be enough to make me penetrate the shadows.

I know of the horrors that writhe beneath

The gauntlet of stars that I’ll never quite reach.

I know of the beasts that hunt me as I lay

Sleepless in sheets, sweat drenching my brow.

I know, if I dare to venture into the night,

I may find that I know not a thing at all,

And that the monsters that I was told

Were stalking my shaking breath,

Were no more than the crippling fear

Trickling down the walls of my room.

I know I could brave the shadowy expanse,

But I am afraid of twilight,

And the horrors that I’ve been told lie within it.

Instead, I will linger within my demin, ultraviolet,

And indigo, whose dusted hues are enough

To fill my craving for the great beyond,

And keep me snuggled beneath my window

Once the sun has set.