Night winds blow as the cold stars glow,
Frost glistens from the light that goes unseen,
Hypnotic gene that steals the soul,
Heavens empty- a man made dream.
Lost in fantasy, yet seek for truth?
Shadows of morbid ignorance fall,
An architect’s structure lay bare,
Heavens empty- soul and mind entwined.
Fickle flame without a name,
Unknown hope apparitions of Ghostly spectators,
Fantasy, a truth locked in a soul?
Heavens empty- forgetting, to survive.
I found your verse interesting, especially since you chose not to name it.
Here’s something I’d written a while back: called “Silent Windless Night”
Silent Windless Night
Silent windless night - hast thou not sheltered my thoughts?
And brought thy thoughts from beyond my sights - to but quote thy silence?
O grave pithy affair devoid of rustles, whooshes and wind,
Would you care in the least for your spirit?
O fair and cool maiden in Indigo robes plush, and plumes of black satin
Hast thou severed my sources of penury with thy dearth of richness?
Thy just and still air is providence of a clarity, a perfection clear
An air without a wind: still as a lake, engulfed within are selves as I;
The airless skies do yield many twinkles, many fond memories of old;
Of innocence, of hope, of unspoilt conjecture on my best.
For now I am far removed from these and thou shalt pass, this to show -
That a man must fall into uncertain things, quest to wing into the mundane flings
Of regularity; And should it drown this circumstance that I chance upon thou?
And I feel more hopeful than sore - for this capacity which destiny has in me left
To warm these pangs of discontent with thy atmospheric lush beckonings.
Or should I feel a cumbrous fool to deny this upon others I know?
So they may find in them the same capacities I humbly find in me now,
Now that I am surrounded by thou and thy silent flitting steps slow.
I enjoyed your poem.
I was wondering is ‘maiden in Indigo robes plush’ the night sky just after twilight but before the Black nights sky? As I’m sure of how to read the symbolism and what you would hope a reader would take from it.
Yes, youre right about that part. The inspiration was that time of the night between twilight and dark. And as Ive confessed - “of unspoilt conjecture on my best”, confidence must have been high, though for no good reason. I guess Ive shunned many old things since then and learned much about life as a student and as a professional, so Ive let go of some of those conjectures.
Cheers…
Do you like this poem?
Sometimes poety isn’t about liking or disliking it’s about writing what one is feeling, and that’s where this poem came from. I look at this and see my words, remembering the emotions I was feeling at the time I wrote it. I don’t know if any one else can understand where I was coming from, that’s part of the reason it’s posted here.
in the words of William Wordsworth, All good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
I detect a lot of spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings in the Creative Writing section of ILP. 
Cheers!
I don’t want to take away from Pax’s lovely and thoughtful poem, but I adore Silent Windless Night.