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 quite evenings easily swarms our virgin sky.
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/ink vile out of pity,
With words mudding 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.
Parades of words that, at first, seem immortal and haunting,
Dance against the promise of a new day.