The night is not just velvet skies,

Or stars that flicker soft goodbyes.

It breathes in ways the day forgets—

With shadows crawling in quiet threats.

The trees don’t sleep, they lean and leer,

Their branches bent to catch what’s near.

An owl blinks once, then disappears,

While silence hums with ancient fears.

The wind speaks names it shouldn’t know,

In voices cold, and low, and slow.

And somewhere down a gravel path,

The earth still echoes someone’s wrath.

Not all that stirs beneath the stars

Are dreams or wishes kept in jars.

Some things creep in when lights are low—

Things that love the dark’s soft glow.

The night is mystery, wrapped in skin,

With teeth that bite from deep within.

So pray you never hear the tune

Of what walks softly past the moon.