When the clock strikes 12, the world exhales,
And silence spills through shadowed trails.
A hush falls soft on rooftops steep,
While stars begin their solemn sweep.

The moon slips on her silver veil,
A whisper carried by the gale.
Curtains dance to unseen hands,
As midnight casts its quiet demands.

Time bends in that fleeting chime,
A bridge between the day and time
Where secrets stir and spirits wake,
And dreams slip through the cracks they make.

Old wishes echo in the air,
Unspoken hopes, half-spun despair.
A fox tiptoes through garden dew,
The world turns dark, then strangely new.

Lovers kiss in borrowed light,
Owls take flight into the night.
The clock ticks on, a lullaby,
For those who ache, for those who cry.

When the clock strikes 12, beware—
Magic hums through midnight air.
And if you listen close, you’ll hear
The heartbeats of another sphere.

At first, time will settle for a minute of your time. But in the end it will claim everything, sans the end. So I sharpen time and run with it. I make it mine to bring to ruin with. I wield it like a sword. I give it out of fear, take it out of regret. I battle and **** for it, hold others hostage with it. Time doesn't want salute or tribute. It wants you to forgot it's there. Just turn your head as it chews the road you built. This non-negotiable is often called the great equalizer. It's my friend until it's not. And I know that day is quickly coming.

A new blade of grass sprouts
among the snarl of weeds
—widow's weeds.
This mourning is young and soft.
Years will come
to make it old and brittle
—like wind against argil.
For now it's a tender creation,
open and pink.
Even the children
do not play as they once did
—no blowing big bubbles
or laughter filling the sky;
—no catching fun in a bottle
or chasing after the butterflies.
An infant shoot this is
—the fragile tendril of
what came before.
In the evening it bows its head,
screen of darkness
a consolation.
Daylight is far more dangerous,
for the cicatrix is stark, unguarded.
All alone it will linger
a naked residual,
a lament to the dagger, Quietus.

Insatiable colored eyes
— inveigle, beguile —
let me tempt you a while.

Between first light
and the breezy part of afternoon
it will dawn upon you soon.

This was an encounter
of convenience
— solicitor's propinquity —
the price paid was your obedience.

Your independence day
tossed your children away,
into deep dark waters of misery
we were immersed.

~
I'm coming to you,
Oh purlieu blue,
No more walls of Berlin
Shall stand between us,
Your name is a link to happiness,
Just the very thought of you
Reaches beyond the tide
And gives life to children,
Our children.
~