Night Approaching as the sun's fire dies down,
The stars make her cloak and the moon is her crown.
She brings out the cold with a flick of her wrists,
And often her breath turns into damp mist.
Her hair's glossy black and her skin is quite pale,
Wherever she walks turns into a frosty veil.
Thin and mysterious, with sharp features, too,
Her shoes made of snow and her eyes icy blue.
Dark, flowing dress concealing small feet,
Scaring some children hiding under their sheets.
Deep red lips on her sad, perfect face,
And at dawn she sneaks off to a faraway place.