Trees loom in the shadows.
Forbidding and threatening.
It reeks of 3am.
The animals hush their cooing.
The cars drive a little slower.
The rain is a bit colder.
It pierces the skin.
Each drop an ice dagger.
The sounds all around.
Enormous in weight.
The silent screams out.
The shadows come out to play.
Monsters and demons
make homes in the hearts
of the lonely still awake.
Of the poet
who feels 3am
as a kindred spirit.
Who knows lonliness in the pits
of his stomach.
He swallows sadness
and mashes his pillow
fighting the urge
to just cradle it to his chest.
It reminds him of
the eternal her
The girl who loved nighttime
who craved the cool dew
of the sleeping grass
under her barefeet
as she waltzed under the moonlight
with owls hooting
their sweet lullaby.
She swayed and danced
light as feathers
and she always danced
in his mind.
And she always danced
in his mind.