A writer is rarely fond of empty nights, yet eagerly embraces it’s mystery.

They witness our Sun folding down to the slums; ghettos peasants dare not trudge


Madness of quiet evenings easily cascade below the nothingness.

Ever more, abundant is darkness on nights a writer does not write,

For their rhymes, ebbed in the corners of regret, happily cloud the gleams of a passion unfamiliar.

On night where death sits near me, I can set it!

The defeat of ambition, beaten by lines they wish they had written ages ago,

I have begged for rain during the night to fill my chalice with the ink of Gods pity,

With words muddling our evening, vast languages stare but do not speak.

I fear the day a writers words will not fall to the towering father waking over the mountains edge of his insanity.

Parades of words that, at first, seem immortal and haunting,

Dance against the promise of a new day.