I recently finished a poem that I started when I was 15, circa 25yrs ago:

Here I sit, on my hill in the pits, as darkness shrouds my world,
A velvet dusk where silence knits, despair in shadows curled.
Yet even night, in solemn breath, conceals a trembling gleam—
A whisper caught in fate's cold net, the ember of a dream.

Beneath the weight of sable skies, where stars dare not ignite,
A hush persists, where sorrow lies—but so too seeds of light.
For even in the cavern's throat, where echoes mourn and flee,
A single note, a silver mote, resounds resiliently.

So let the gloom press close and tight, let tempests rave and roll,
For light is not the foe of night—but its most secret soul.
And here I sit, though shadows twist, my spirit yet uncurled,
Hope kindles fire in the mist, and dawn reclaims the world.