The Re-claiming of night

She comes for me like a thief,
creeping onto the edges of my domain.
Fast does she ride, advancing swiftly, as does Mercury.
She bewitches me, and takes over.
Her scent is that of morning's dew settling,
Her hair, the gold of Apollo.
The chariot atop which she sits, gleams. . .
with the crystalline presence of the North Wind.
It is from her I flee,
To know she is approaching, is to ready for my own demise.
To lay eyes upon her beauty, is to invite my own downfall.
Tightly she holds to what is mine.
Until such a time as I may return.
Bringing with me her ruin,
Which is my name. . . .
Dusk. . .