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dedpoetPoems
The profits of words In the night that becomes us, We the nocturnal poets, Divinities of the good nights When benevolence soars As the pen avenges the light; Constellation of the return, Coming to rip the hope from regret And all dissolves into a pen, Inklings that become the umbilical Cord between now and then, Present and tomorrow Are written for the sake of hope, Because yesterday is usually A sad poem. Quarter hour gone, I reinvent myself Born from the volcanic melancholy, The fire that burns In the moments we want Those moment's time, Here and now, Words are the quarter hour's Fulfillment at the poets Expense.
0
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
The Quarter Hour Midnight Poets
The profits of words In the night that becomes us, We the nocturnal poets, Divinities of the good nights When benevolence soars As the pen avenges the light; Constellation of the return, Coming to rip the hope from regret And all dissolves into a pen, Inklings that become the umbilical Cord between now and then, Present and tomorrow Are written for the sake of hope, Because yesterday is usually A sad poem. Quarter hour gone, I reinvent myself Born from the volcanic melancholy, The fire that burns In the moments we want Those moment's time, Here and now, Words are the quarter hour's Fulfillment at the poets Expense.
dedpoet
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dedpoet
38/M
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 1:29 AM UTC
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