Black Nyx, the all engulfing one,
Claimant of souls as tribute to her bastard life,
Sterile, empty, as the depths of space,
That reflect in her hungry, empty eyes.
All horrors of the mind she does provoke,
Twisting memory, locking hope away,
Inside the pithos there to wait,
As pulsing, fragmentary, half-lived offering.
How easily the night hag queen extends,
Her rusted fingers out into the mortal world,
To comb her nails raking through minds,
To furrow brows and plant the weeds of doubt.
Once her fitting tribute she’s prepared,
Casts out her prize into her bitter dark,
Leaving each drying husk to twist and rot,
Gasping to breathe clean air not stagnant breath.
No Orpheus can come to play his song,
Nor lead Nyx’ victims out through prison caves,
No Hercules to break apart her gates,
And collar Kerberos, drooling hound her slave.
No hero there can come, nor bring relief,
There is no safety from the Furies Nyx commands,
As all the judgements of the underworld now do come,
With little, scant relief from Phlegethon’s fires.
How often have we prisoners thus forgot,
The beauty and the promises of day,
While painted in abysmal, darkest hues,
By Nyx the strong implacable, the foe?
But there is one as powerful as Nyx,
Gentle, soft, caresser of caught souls,
She of the renewing and reviving breath,
The bringer of the purifying light.
So does Aurora, Eos, Dawn,
Rose fingered fragrant as the flowers,
Who wake, like souls, remembering, the light,
And blinking lose their chains to stand erect.
For even in the darkest eventide,
There is one truth which always must remain,
That dawn will come to chase away the night,
And cleanse the hallowed chambers of our mind.