The clock strikes twelve, the city's noise is dead,
As restless spirits gather in my head.
The steam rises from a dark and bitter cup,
While all the ghosts of poems are waking up.
The world is dreaming under blankets deep,
But I have promises I cannot keep.
The ink is flowing like a midnight stream,
Between the waking world and every dream.
In this blue light, the shadows come alive,
The only hour when the words survive.
I tell my diary things the sun can't know,
As black-inked seeds begin to sprout and grow.
The silence is a canvas, white and vast,
Where I can let the heavy day be past.
The bitterness of coffee on my tongue,
Matches the songs that have been left unsung.
No phone is ringing and no voices call,
Just me and the echoes on the bedroom wall.
By dawn, the pages will be full and bright,
The harvest of a long and lonely night.