Dark Quotes

Numberless paths of night
wind away from twilight.

Something moves within the night
that is not good and is not right.

The whisper of the dusk
is night shedding its husk.

Night has patterns that can be read
less by the living than by the dead.

In the real world
as in dreams,
nothing is quite
what it seems.

Darkness devours every shining day.
Darkness demands and will always have its way.
Darkness listens, watches, waits.
Darkness claims the day and celebrates.
Sometimes in silence darkness comes.
Sometimes with a gleeful banging of drums.

Extreme terror gives us back the
gestures of our childhood.

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
whoever knocks!

In midst of nothing, something is.
So I ask, "What is this?"
Answers come from all around.
And I hear, without a sound.

When tempest-tossed,
embrace chaos.

In the fields of life, a harvest
sometimes comes far out of season,
when we thought the earth was old
and could see no earthly reason
to rise for work at break of dawn,
and put our muscles to the test.
With winter here and autumn gone,
it just seems best to rest, to rest.
But under winter fields so cold,
wait the dormant seeds of seasons
unborn, and so the heart does hold
hope that heals all bitter lesions.
In the fields of life, a harvest.

On the road that I taken,
one day, walking, I awaken,
amazed to see where I have come,
where I'm going, where I'm from.

This is not the path I thought.
This is not the place I sought.
This is not the dream I bought,
just a fever of fate I've caught.

I'll change highways in a while,
at the crossroads, one more mile.
My path is lit by my own fire.
I'm going only where I desire.

On the road that I have taken,
one day, walking, I awaken.
One day, walking, I awaken,
on the road that I have taken.

Nowhere can a secret keep
always secret, dark and deep,
half so well as in the past,
buried deep to last, to last.

Keep it in your own dark heart,
otherwise the rumors start.

After many years have buried
secrets over which you worried,
no confidant can then defray
all the words you didn't say.

Only you can then exhume
secrets safe within the tomb
of memory, of memory,
within the tomb of memory.

The sky is deep, the sky is dark,
The light of stars is so damn stark.
When I look up, I fill with fear.
If all we have is what lies here,
this lonely world, this troubled place,
then cold dead stars and empty space...
Well, I see no reason to persevere,
no reason to laugh or shed a tear,
no reason to sleep or ever to wake,
no promises to keep, and none to make.
And so at night I still raise my eyes
to study the clear but mysterious skies--
that arch above us, as cold as stone.
Are you there, God? Are we alone?

Life without meaning
cannot be borne.
We find a mission
to which we're sworn
--or answer the call
of Death's dark horn.
Without a gleaning
of purpose in life,
we have no vision,
we live in strife,
--or let blood fall
on a suicide knife.

Under the winter moon's pale light,
across the cold and starry night,
from snowy mountains soaring high
to ocean shores echoes the cry.
From barren sands to verdant fields,
from city street to lonely wealds,
cries the tortured human heart,
seeking solace, wisdom, a chart
by which to understand its plight
under the winter moon's pale light.
Dawn is unable to fade the night.
Must we live ever in the blight
under the winter moon's cold light,
lost in loneliness, hate, and fright,
last night, tonight, tomorrow night
under the winter moon's bleak light?

At the point where hope and reason part,
lies the spot where madness gets a start.
Hope to make the world kinder and free --
but flowers of hope root in reality.

No peaceful bed exists for lamb and lion,
unless on some world out beyond Orion.
Do not instruct the owls to spare the mice.
Owls acting as owls must is not a vice.

Storms do not respond to heartfelt pleas.
All the words of men can't calm the seas.
Nature -- always beneficent and cruel --
won't change for wise man or fool.

Mankind shares all Nature's imperfections,
clearly visible to casual inspections.
Resisting betterment is the human trait.
The ideal of utopia is our tragic fate.

There's no escape
from death's embrace,
though you lead it on
a merry chase.

The dogs of death
enjoy the chase.
Just see the smile
on each hound's face.

The chase can't last;
the dogs must feed.
It will come to pass
with terrifying speed.

Rush headlong and hard at life
or just sit at home and wait.
All things good and all the wrong
will come right to you: it's fate.

Living in the modern age,
death for virtue is the wage.
So it seems in darker hours.
Evil wins, kindness cowers.

Is there some meaning to this life?
What purpose lies behind the strife?
Whence do we come, where are we bound?
These cold questions echo and resound
through each day, each lonely night.
We long to find the splendid light
that will cast a revelatory beam
upon the meaning of the human dream.

Holy men tell us life is a mystery.
They embrace that concept happily.
But some mysteries bite and bark
and come to get you in the dark.

Death is no fearsome mystery.
He is well known to thee and me.
He hath no secrets he can keep
to trouble any good man's sleep.

Turn not thy face from Death away.
Care not he takes our breath away.
Fear him not, he's not thy master,
rushing at thee faster, faster.
Not thy master but servant to
the Maker of thee, what or Who
created Death, created thee
--and is the only mystery.

We have a weight to carry
and a distance we must go.
We have a weight to carry,
a destination we can't know.
We have a weight to carry
and can put it down nowhere.
We are the weight to carry
from there to here to there.

We can embrace love; it's not too late.
Why do we sleep, instead, with hate?
Belief requires no suspension
to see that Hell is our invention.
We make Hell real; we stoke its fires.
And in its flames our hope expires.
Heaven, too, is merely our creation.
We can grant ourselves our own salvation.
All that's required is imagination.

Every eye sees its own special vision;
every ear hears a most different song.
In each man's troubled heart, and incision
would reveal a unique, shameful wrong.

Stranger fiends hide here in human guise
than reside in the valleys of Hell.
But goodness, kindness and love arise
in the heart of the poor beast, as well.

To see what we have never seen,
to be what we have never been.
To shed the chrysalis and fly,
depart the earth, kiss the sky,
to be reborn, be someone new:
is this a dream or is it true?

Can our future be cleanly shorn
from a life to which we're born?
Is each of us a creature free - -
or trapped at birth by destiny?
Pity those who believe the latter.
Without freedom, nothing matters.

Where eerie figures caper
to some midnight music
that only they can hear.

Life is a gift that must be given back
and joy should arise from its possession.
It's too damned short, and that's a fact.
Hard to accept, this earthly procession
to final darkness is a journey done,
circle completed, work of art sublime,
a sweet melodic rhyme, a battle won.

All of us are travelers lost,
our tickets arranged at a cost
unknown but beyond our means.
This odd itinerary of scenes
-- enigmatic, strange, unreal --
leaves us unsure how to feel.
No postmortem journey is rife
with more mystery than life.

I found more joy in sorrow/Than you could find in joy.

"Flying to leaf flying to petal
Butterfly content with a moment to settle
Out from safe harbour within its cocoon
It seems not to fret with a time come too soon
Much like childhood floating through clouds
Spared from the strife that happiness shrouds"

I don't want to be here and I don't want to be there.
I only ever want to be right by your side...
But the going is tougher than this tough one can stand
It is a way overrun with so many fears
No one knows-- No one understands
I feel so alone
Dark deadly prone
Please! Dear God! Someone! Help me understand...

I was never young; I have always been growing older.

Writing in the "dark" can be cathartic for the mind...

Oh for the moonless night,
when the orb shines not its reflected light.
As shadows follow with the sun,
from the moonlit night, you cannot run...

For the light that is vanquished by the shade,
a concession of balance must be made....
As the sun casts shadows of nighttime's gray,
the moon mirrors the light of day.

The only thing that is yours, is your soul;
everything else is borrowed.

The earth is my body,
the wind, my spirit;
the sky, my dreams;
the cosmos, my future
...unknown.

How somber, sudden silent,
we now lie waking through the night.