In the quiet of midnight, where thoughts float like autumn leaves

In the quiet of midnight, where thoughts float like autumn leaves, The poet's soul stirs, playing with words that ignite the unseen, Lightning and luck, the last bluebird singing a melancholic hymn, In this realm of verses, where convention dares not tread. The mind wanders, untamed, through forests of forgotten dreams, Each word a spark, each line a whisper of the cosmos, For to write is to gamble, to cast dice with the muses, And let the verses flow, wild and free, untouched by the mundane. Oh, the careful ones, who study, who teach, who do not feel, Bound by the chains of convention, their fire stripped bare, They dissect language, but never taste its raw, untamed beauty, Their words, mere echoes in the void, lacking the soul's fervent flame. But here, in this sacred space, where the poet's heart beats wild, Every thought a lightning bolt, every emotion a storm, The lines flow like rivers, unrestrained and fierce, Lightning and luck guiding the pen, as it dances across the page. The last bluebird sings, a melody of sorrow and hope, Its song a testament to the power of unbridled creation, For in these verses, the poet's soul finds its true voice, A voice that risks, that lives in the thrill of the unknown. Each stanza a journey, each verse a leap into the abyss, Where the labyrinth of the mind unfurls, and the heart's secrets are laid bare, In the flux of consciousness, where reality and dream intertwine, The poet finds solace, a fleeting moment of clarity in chaos. Lightning and luck, the pulse of existence, The gamble of creation, the dance of the divine, For in the flowing verses, the poet's spirit rises, Unbound, unafraid, a beacon in the night. So let the careful ones study, let them teach and fail, For they will never know the thrill of the gamble, The ecstasy of creation, the fire that burns within, In the quiet of midnight, where thoughts float like autumn leaves.