LUGNET News : ~1112/Poetry/Midnight/


Matt Hein / Poetry / Midnight /

Midnight’s sentinel, the Wolf

The wolf, midnight sentinel. Written 06-28-03 By M. Aaron Hein.

Throughout recorded history, many metaphorical instances have cited the wolf as night, creeping upon the manors and meadows under the guise of sunset, only to be pierced with sporadic light and the moon. This poem cites just that instance, and as the eye of the eve fades, the doctrine of the gun resides.

As the midnight moon resides about the sky,
pale, silver, reflecting about the drive
from the rooftops, light slightly cascades about the
and meadows and humble abodes

and serenity itself

seems to be a deceptive lie
to yield shadows and depth
like a drape set over day

dotting the sky with shadow and glints of fire
night has fallen upon the city with stead and like
the ever conniving fox, casts all it touches

to deceive, definitely not to evince, or to ire
to falsely reveal

what might be, is not
and what is, might not be

like those shadows of nothingness which dance against
the night sky, overhead the lakes and seas?

explain this

and the pervading creaks
which resonate inexpicably
through countless domiciles
tectonic, shifting, or simply static

or all the while

the fields ebb forth silently like tides,
shifting like proverbial seas

and

the fact that night creeps upon communities
like the sentinel the wolf,
despised, yet endeared
disliked, yet cherished
in legends revered
but in terms of the hunt,

strives

for light’s temporal perish
and under the night, gunshots fire,

pillaging by the beast ensures

vapidity as hired, squired
and in time of satisfaction, surely retires
and sometimes permeate the countryside, beckoning
tauntingly, haughty, imperious
waiting in solitude for the

next moon to return,

to set their bloodied paws upon
the windowsills,
upon th residence of the commoner
and to lash at all standing with

their rabid fangs

glinting with their piercing eyes,
with presistence to reveal to show
and at the sound of gunfire,
makes a direction of bravado

after the guard ruffles their feathers,
to dart off unnoticed into the rushes
and at the sighs of the residents,
anger like an ambient clouds over them,
evoking silence and hushes

of caution and defense

with the immediate click of a catch and the
sharp rattle of powder granules, followed by
tightly loaded shot and the cocking of the hammer
the musket underarm
quick paced trudging trough the darkness
lo and behold, light shone into the caverns and

brush

the reflection upon the eyes of the damned stealthy
dog, which will be blasted into dust,
scttered into the wind
or buried, its eyes acrimonious like rust,
as recently doused fire
and pilfered for its trophy

in the hunter’s immortal and devious trust
terror fills the lands underneath those skies
serenity anything but a blessing
as god’s reach there is gone,

scattered away, concise
replaced with with enforced law
of the musket, the gun
and the ever watchful eye of the assembled guard
upon the meadows, manors and lawn

fin...

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