Midnight without Mariah

It's nearly midnight and the velvet sky above
is puncuated only by the howling crescent of the moon.
A single parenthesis opens on an empty phrase--no color, no movement, no melody, no tune.
Nothing escapes save the silent light, irradescent, which illuminates an earth unseen by sun--
A world which "heaven to gaudy day denies".
Never before thought I on just why heaven has so decreed, but now I understand,
and more. Now, it seems, I see.
I see the teardrops on roses of velvety black. Immoral, immortal they ring. They glisten--little kaleidescopes--gyrating with every choke in my breast and every sob in my soul.
It's midnight without Mariah, and the moonlight was never so cold.