There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am, When all artistic, damaged or insomniatic souls Feel like they're completely alone Even though we're all awake and feeling the same thing. 12am is still too loud, still too car engines and shouting, And 6am is too light, too exposing and awake, aware. It's blackness but for the starlight puncturing holes in the sky, That's when the magic arises and enchants us. The way the moon looks at us and begs us to untrouble our weary hearts, So we do it, and we do it willingly. She is the most unfaithful lover, and it is beautiful. How she cherishes each whispered secret so deeply That it leaves a crater on her being. How she takes on our pain unflinchingly, And only needs 28 days to feel whole again. There's a time, somewhere between 12am and 6am, When the most trapped souls can feel such freedom.
Not entirely convinced that insomniatic is a word, but it should be.