There's something about the poets
That leaves them wakeful
At midnight... and thereafter.
Perhaps it's because the blackness
Speaks like artful despair
Pitch dark
With just enough silvery input
From the stars
To perhaps stir up some inspiration.
Perhaps it's the romantics' glimmer of hope
As they hold their drooping eyes open
Wishing for the constellations
To write their stories for them.
Perhaps it's that those who feel alone
Fall in love with the moon
And her solitary beauty
So they search for ways to sing her praises
Before going off to cast their own light.
Perhaps these are some of the reasons why
Poets retire late
And rise later
Drawing funny looks
From the disciplined.
Perhaps it's not quite crazy --
In fact, it's quite normal
When you zoom in on a world full of wordsmiths
Churning out art beneath a blanket of dark.
Because sleep is not our muse --
Night herself is.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 10:19 PM UTC
There's something about the poets
That leaves them wakeful
At midnight... and thereafter.
Perhaps it's because the blackness
Speaks like artful despair
Pitch dark
With just enough silvery input
From the stars
To perhaps stir up some inspiration.
Perhaps it's the romantics' glimmer of hope
As they hold their drooping eyes open
Wishing for the constellations
To write their stories for them.
Perhaps it's that those who feel alone
Fall in love with the moon
And her solitary beauty
So they search for ways to sing her praises
Before going off to cast their own light.
Perhaps these are some of the reasons why
Poets retire late
And rise later
Drawing funny looks
From the disciplined.
Perhaps it's not quite crazy --
In fact, it's quite normal
When you zoom in on a world full of wordsmiths
Churning out art beneath a blanket of dark.
Because sleep is not our muse --
Night herself is.
