Morning brewed in cups of sunshine,
I only hear the jingles of planets,
The door to the galaxy swinging open,
Between the past and future is just a moment,
Some tried to chase the exact feeling,
Some tried to trap inspiration in their pockets,
But the ladder always falls, every time,
You can only wait for next year's rain to nourish your sonnets.

Midnight marked my rendezvous with this trance,
The midnight of the bustle produced by the world,
Picked up from the tree of people, somehow chosen,
I bask in a greater silence where only my mind can be heard,
Elevated between clouds so gracefully,
The paper getting dressed to the nines with every word,
I'd prefer it if time stopped hounding me,
And if the bicker of responsibilies would stop my trance from getting stirred.*

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