Nights Do Not Lie

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When sable night ascends with starry crown,
She speaketh truth where day doth cast a frown.
No silken smile, nor honey’d tongue of gold,
Can she abide within her quiet hold.

The wounds we dress in garb of pride by light,
Do bleed anew beneath her solemn sight.
She hath no need of flattery or fame,
For all in shadow she doth call by name.

Thy wealth hard-won, thy visage fair and bright,
Thy fleeting joys that vanish with the night,
All art unmasked when moonlight pale doth gleam—
No painted life withstands her silent beam.

The whisper’d spite, the envy deep and hid,
The toil of women, oft by world forbid,
The trembling hand that seeks in drink relief,
All rise in night to claim their ancient grief.

Fair words that danced in sun’s deceiving fire
Fall mute when Luna climbs her throne entire.
The boasts of men, their vanities well-spun,
Are naught beneath the ever-watchful sun.

Lo, masks of glass, in screens and scrolls displayed,
The debts concealed, the empty pride conveyed,
All cracked and crumble 'neath her starlit gaze,
For darkness searcheth hearts in quiet blaze.

Then wakes the soul, uncloaked of false disguise—
The child that weeps behind a grown man’s eyes.
The maiden bowed beneath a silent load,
The mind that wandereth a lonely road.

Ambition's ache, unspok'n, unshown by day,
The worth that wilteth when the world turns away,
The scream within that lips dare not reveal—
These dost the hush of midnight oft unseal.

The day may smile with jest and revel bright,
Yet night is judge, and truth her sacred right.
No stage she builds for pomp or praise or cheer,
But holds a mirror none can help but fear.

Confession is her tongue, and grace her gift;
She bringeth low, yet teacheth hearts to lift.
Where daylight doth our best deceits disguise,
The night with gentle hand doth open eyes.

And so—
She lies not. Nay, she doth but await
The soul’s surrender at her shadowed gate.
She flatters not. She doth not soon forget.
She showeth thee thyself—
Wouldst thou look yet?

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