Do not go gently into that good night, he said.
What good night? I replied.
What night is ever good?
You lay there in solitary darkness
Waiting for a sunrise
To brighten
Your isolation
But what about a night spent in the arms of another? He countered.
What arms? I replied.
Those arms
If they were to wrap around me
Would be wrapped around the soul of a murderer
And murderers do not take kindly to comfort
From the arms of intruders
What is wrong with comfort? He inquired.
Comfort is brief, I replied.
It never lasts
Like a warm spring
A bitter winter
But what about love? He pressed
Is love not eternal?
No, I insisted.
Love is for the fickle joys of men's hearts
And for the yearning young dreams of girls minds
Love is
What I would call
A good night