She wore thick framed glasses and her colour was conviction,
Assured of herself, black, poised, my affliction,
She taps me gently on my fingertips wakes me for inscription,
She knows me well, feeds my addiction.
Wears her prose in balanced meter, long pauses of silence,
At times white noise, piercing violence,
Enamoured with adornments of the highest order, black diamonds,
She knows how to wake me and be my guidance.
Only a lover would know her and how she allures,
She’s divorce material, an obsession with no cure,
She’s the last person my wife would ever conjure,
Her name is The Night, black majestic grandeur.