Their branches are tipped with the breath of night, a blurry photograph stripped of the light.

  The cicadas chirp and the wind groans low, prowling the area with much farther to go.

  The sky is a light hazy hue, the floor, a sea of pitch dark blue.

  A sapphire of obscurity hangs low on the floor, a fog, translucent as an apparition billows in the breeze of the moor.

  The touch of the undead, icy palms linger on my knee-caps as a wind blows genially through netted thread.

  I stretch skin on flesh on bone to the little view of my world, wind rustling, cicadas still heaving the backbone of the melodic rhythm, the smell of crisp leaves in the air.

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  It is midnight, a truly dreadful sight for my sleep schedule, yet I can't fall into my slumber.

  I wonder how many tosses and turns must I take; how many times I ache, for not the sound or the sight of night but for the presence.

  I suppose I would be considered a monster, an elusive entity that stalks the forest with eyes like an owl.

  I suppose I considered those things to be virtuous as I gaze upon the reflection in the window.

  And I suppose as I heard the wind, the cicadas, and the sound of my breathing, the fog darkening along the gray horizon; I can suppose that the world is not so lonely.

  For I refuse to utter, to even relinquish the thought of the world being empty; I can relish in the sweet escape of release.

  Until it is dawn and the day breaks and the bird's chirp; let me relive my night cycle forevermore.