How Many Lonely Nights Shall I Face Amid Your Darkness?

How Many Lonely Nights Shall I Face Amid Your Darkness?
January 28, 2007 (Revised October 16, 2013)

I never knew 'till sunset
The definition of Night
Till I lost the ability
To close thy eyes.
'Tis far darker
Than it doth appear;
'Tis all so opaque,
For sometimes one
May consider a night sky
Wanton of the existence
Of a shooting star.
Yet, I am amid a sojourn
For a fortnight, longer;
And I now may admit,
Free and unfettered,
I now am sentient 'pon
The sun setting unto Night.

'Tis times I wonder 
What it is to be in life
When the lights are out,
The skies darken'd;
The mind, restless
Till it appears to be barren,
For t'will be nothing for it
To rest upon, 'tis my fear.
They measure my mind
Amid scales at a healthy 146;
But I was aged a baker's dozen; 
T'was so long ago; and yet
I am a cerebral vagabond today
Forevermore, ad infinitum;
And I desire to learn 
If thy mind shall assimilate
With that of Our Lord, Thy God.
Shall I? Shall I ever face 
His Terrible Wrath?
Shall the morn bequeath 
'Pon a new Pax Romani?

What is life 'pon 
The death of His Light?
What shall happen 'pon 
The death of the Universe's breath?
Doth you still color Night navy blue
Rather than paltry and opaqu'd Black?
What, pray tell, is akin 
To Life regarding Normalcy!
What is your Knowledge of Truth
Amid the night skies opaque,
Of when the seas doth mingle in
A tryst with her billow'd clouds?
Am I to gain a simple grasp
Of Matter's complexities, origins?
How many more lonely nights
Shall I breathe the same air as today?
Am I destin'd to slumber amid
The moonlit auspices o'er the bay?

'Tis getting very exhaustive, 
This perpetuating nuit de la solitude;
'Tis a path arduous, 
T'will never slow for my mind to rest.
The ambiance is hazy; 
'Tis the acquistion of age, cantankery
As I have arriv'd 'pon the doorsteps
 Of a quarter-century's age.
Come now, Ides of June!
 Shall I remain'd humbl'd, lost, astray?
Shall I permit my mind to wander 
To the isle of St. Helena
Amid the undulating of guards
Descriptive of the Atlantic?
I feel you, O' Bonaparte!
'Tis a life begot to self-loathe
When the lights die and
The One 'tis not home;
I shall forevermore grieve
Till Sisyphus' night ceases!