the pink fingers of dawn
In the minutes that torture
us with their tauntings.
In the seconds that hold
the secrets of an eternity.
We hold our pens,
feeling their power.
And we pause.
Fill our lungs with the quiet
scent of peace and terror
that drifts through our imaginations
at this most hallowed hour.
We sip our tea and relish the
favored flavor as it fills our mouths
with the sweetest of comfort.
We hear the gentle brushing
of the breeze beyond
the window pane.
The moon strolls over the quiet land.
The earth slows it spinning.
The stars wink down and hold a pensive breath.
The candle burning its smoky wick encourages.
The paper begs in turn for our pens to touch its surface.
The violet wreathed companions of Apollo
whisper their commands.
And finally, we write.
Those torturous minutes
become our sanctuary where
The rotation of the earth is righted.
The stars breath easy and the moon
begins to fade as we find ourselves
living in the worlds we have created.
* * *
To the Midnight Writers,
May our oil burn bright,
May our holy hour last forever,
May we find in our souls the wish our
hearts dream for us.
To the Midnight Writers who have been,
To the Midnight Writers who are,
And to Midnight Writers who will be...
I am with you, my pen in hand...
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