The curse of Cassandra

The shadows slowly shut out the sky,
Creeping all the time like a ghost,
Staining the light, feeding on it,
As it retreats, vanquished.

The shadows, they are cunning,
Versed in the dark art of concealment,
They hide themselves well
In boys mining the garbage
for pieces of rotting leftovers,
In a pillow pressed hard
snuffing out the miracle of birth,
In the semen stains that paint white
the tired faces of half-clad girls
in dark alleyways,
In the touch of a father's hand
under the covers of a sleeping child,
Even in a poem ripped apart
by sheer spite.

Even had Cassandra been alive today,
Condemned by her curse, we would still,
Refuse to believe that the sun
Split itself some while ago,
And gave birth to the night.