The Night

Is it so sad to see  
The beauty,  
The poetry,
Of Death and His  
Sweetness?  
Is it but my soul  
Romanticizing  
The coldness,
The frigid, unsurpassed  
Reality of Him,  
which so many  
Fear because of  
Ignorance?  
Am I only a  
Dark, foolish  
Cynic with the hope of
Beauty beyond the  
Grave?  
And what is there that  
May lay beyond heaving  
Lungs?  
I feel I see Death  
As a comfort because  
Of His eternity;  
that His prescence  
Is an always thing,
And that He will not
Pass away as do  
The flowers and  
Trees and all my  
Breaths of vain.  
To understand, you  
Must see from my soul
The perfection of  
The Night;
That I see a rich, ocher  
Box  
As a haven to  
Rest eternally,  
A safety from my  
Constant thoughts,
My smothering brain,  
Always rivetting.
So I inquire:  
is it so sad to see the  
Loveliness, the  
Poetry of
Rotting, cold in  
My silken casket?