When night falls, good men fall with it.
With the Lord’s angels by their side, they sleep.
Full of hope, full of life.
But with that same nightfall,
Some men go to war forsaken by God.
And tonight I, the poet,
I ride with those men into battle.
“Good” men, but worse, darkened souls.
And what’s a man but his soul?
The enemy? Well, every “good” man’s enemy
Is his soul, his very own soul.
And the strategy? Every man for himself.
Tonight I ride nightfall with nothing.
A thick darkness swallows my already dark soul.
But I see him, clad in exquisite cotton
Like the “good” in which he rests at sunrise.
The “good” man everyone sees.
But men don’t see souls. Men don’t see truth.
So today I march against nightfall
Armed with nothing but hope
And the man I want to be can only surface
If I win this war against night itself.
