The Bruised Night

There is something profound about the night
Something in the beaten air that breathes
It despairs those in love to be enslaved to time
The close cousin of distance, indeed.

There is something about the ink of the dark morning hours
Something that stirs each pen to write
Perhaps exhaustion is what writers devour
With their scrawling words that sink and bite.

There is some sort of reserved energy
In the cold waking hours of early morning
That only the right can assess;

In the cold morning hours, when dawn is hesitant
To interrupt lovers’ ballads in progress;

The sun yawns resolutely
Its splendors shiver truly
Timid rays growing strong and intense;

And the world must then return
To its slow, average turn
And await the creative night

Once again.


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