The full
Picking the path,
In the haste of walk
Winding around 'hidden shapes ',
And shadows,
As the last strong hold.
Of day.
Losses its grasp.
To night
Mysterious unknown creatures,
Swing past in the dark.
The helpless feelings of fright.
Pushes back security.
As the last strong hold
Of the black.
Turns to indigo ink
A secure feeling condisends.
Neath the light of the full moon.
poem by Howard Johnson
Added by Poetry Lover
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