Midnight Ink

In the quiet of the night, a whisper moves. A spark lights up— soft, sudden… like a muse breathing fire into the dark. The day has faded. Only shadows now. And the wind takes its flight. Somewhere, a soft orange glow— a place where hidden feelings go. Twilight sits there, still and slow. Numb… but aching to be known. Above, in star-filled skies, an attic waits with a long, quiet sigh. And a poet— hand trembling, eyes wide— reaches out with ink-stained dreams. A pale moon rises— soft, tall, glowing. It doesn’t ask. It only whispers: “Let go.” Midnight poets… we write when the world is sleeping. We are as free as falling leaves caught in autumn vines. Our words? Like spells— biting, healing, yours and mine. We are web-weavers of sleepless pages. We speak with no voice, just ink. Blind hands tearing night from day, spilling dreams in messy, beautiful lines. We don’t need food. Just ink. Just words. Just this fire in our chest that never quits. We burn through pages, break pens, bloom in places no one else sees. We whisper to the unknown. Eyes closed. But everything… everything is seen. We build worlds from nothing. We escape by creating cages made of rhyme. We have no friends— just ghosts in our heads. We are the ones no one understands. Midnight is our kingdom. And poetry… is how we rule it. So if you hear this and your heart feels it— Maybe I’m not just talking about me. Maybe… I’m talking about you.