At 3 am,
In a small city
Where the stars barely shine
And the darkness is silent,
You can hear hidden crickets
And feel the ghosts of forgotten memories.
They call it the witching hour,
But I call it
The hour of inspiration.
Because it's at 3 am,
That I write my best poems.
But it's also the only time,
That I let the tears fall
And I allow myself to think
Of hugs from winter,
Conversations with the breeze,
And the kisses from the stars.