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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield

Night Life

I returned before the night
was over.
A man looking for lost things.
For a solitude outside himself.
Where the darkness begins
just beyond his window.
And, as my eyes adjusted
to the darkness,
accepted its peace,
moonlight falling on
the curvature of broken symmetry,
I discovered a world wakening.

As many bats as birds,
moths as butterflies,
a space full to the brim.
There was no emptiness.
Everything was colliding,
coming together like the emotions
of a face,
and I resolved
never to think lonely thoughts again
when I walk at night.
Or imagine that my soul is blind.
Or I need be afraid of the dark.

Rather, it has arms
that touch gently,
voices that call with hope
and desire,
and alcoves from the rain
that pour music
through the heart,
and people I touch,
blessing them in their sleep.

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