Midnight

Petals that fall, The subtle black that swoons. The brief streams of pale light. Little things, with hidden wings. That sing short things about rhyming rings. These things that like rings, with wings. It’s your eyes and ears they do sting. It’s your heart they do prick for sinning. Certainly it’s not you that is winning. The horrid thought that comes with pining. The wretched hatred for dining. The sully state of the mellowing. The gully in its riling. The cord raining tightly, shallowing. Feet swinging gently, dangling. Hairpin turns careening. Race horses galloping. Crowds screaming. From all of these, what is the gleaning? Certainly it is not the singing… There they scream, little things with wings shining. “Come back!” they cry. Can you really hear them though? Do they still call if you shut them out? Can’t you hear how they exhaust themselves? How exhausted they must be, To try to keep you doing right. What do they do? How do they do? Why do they do?