Around Midnight

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: MotivationIgnited

A writer around midnight

Submitted: December 09, 2017

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Submitted: December 08, 2017



Around Midnight



Around Midnight, The small house was now, thankfully, still.

The only light to be seen came from two small candles and a cheap desktop lamp.They serve our writer, each night, valiantly holding back the darkness, in this little home on the corner, where the writer cannot write.

Our writer, my friend, is a man of thoughts soon lost, glimpses and shadows of knowledge from The Elysian Fields, never quite rising high enough to grasp, choosing instead to hide like small children at play. Our writer longs for the words, the ability, the courage. Around Midnight, each night, he gets his chance.

And once again, as if those very same children, the thieves of his Faulkner moments, were in his charge, seemingly destined to help tell his story, and yet willfully disobedient.

Our writer who has so much to say, lays his not yet old fingertips on keyboard, and is often unequal to the task.

Around midnight are the times of hidden fortune though, the times that favor a wayward spirit. Our writer is nothing more than a stubborn, true romantic, determined to tell his tale. refusing to believe that long ago the words had left him. The words, like wives, and daughters, could not be gone forever. Each evening, just around midnight, our writer finds his hope again.

These nights have a thousand meanings, and more than one story. He often thinks about that story, and the one after, around midnight. He dreams of the possibilities. Possibility and Hope are the love affair the world has always waited for.

The night is a slow, sweet, tender, innocent kiss, caught for a moment in time, between two young lovers.

More powerful than kings, bishops, rooks, or knights in white satin. This one kiss should never be forgotten, and a lovers heart will never let it fade.

Alternately, around midnight, the demons wander. Quiet streets, quiet doorways. No watchful eyes. Dangerous, deceptive, wicked creatures roam the roads. Our writer chooses not to feed the dark wolf, the same cannot be said for so many others. Mighty are the self involved, righteous, judgemental souls that choose poison over love.

And yet? These barbarous souls hold no sway with our writer. Evil exposed can be defeated. Self righteousness, moral superiority, and willful ignorance play hide and seek in the shadows, often never revealing the game until their unsuspecting opponent no longer has the strength to go on. Our writer though, has his two candles, he clings to his lamp. Our writer keeps the shadows at bay.

And in this home, on the corner, our writer counts his heartbeat, and lets these thoughts play, like dancing fairies, in his mind, around midnight, when all is still.

A black and white, scrawny and beautiful, awaits his return from the corner. A small reminder that love does indeed burn, even if temporarily forgotten during the onslaught of the day.

A thousand words sit on the tips of his fingers, a thousand more stand at the ready. The armies of wisdom, love, beauty, and betrayal are his alone to command.

Ready to fight for honor and poetry, our writer knows his greatest opponent. Her name is Mediocrity. Nothing in life can crush a soul, shed a tear, or wither a poetic dream, like she can.

 Hear me dear friend, she is a powerful force, and, for now, she renders him mute.

This age of ours, the do more, produce more, instant gratification lives we lead are the poets poison. 

But we must leave it to our writer to find a way, and, although just barely down the path,Our writer knows one secret. He has seen one gem in the tall weeds. Our writer understands with soul and grace and stillness, that mediocrity will never prevail over tomorrow's.............. around midnight. 

Tomorrow our writer will have his dreams renewed. Tomorrow the streets will quiet, and the lights will dim. The candles will be lit and the desk lamp will try once more. Tomorrow our writer will quest for the elusive words. The melancholy sentences. The palace among the snow covered peaks.

For tomorrow, there will always be another, around midnight.


© Copyright 2018 Glenn Michael killey. All rights reserved.

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