Midnight Poet

Whisper's of October Whispers in this soup bowl 20 minutes after its muse explodes, Daylight remains nothing more than a dream Warding off the howling sound in mid-September's stream Casting a line about a ginger light, found in the depths of everything Engaging from the sitting twilight, numb, tranquilized Exposing and expressing the emotions found within An attic lost in the Ancient sky ---awaits A poetic hand is formed ---reaching out A hissing whisper out of the darkness, Listen-in, the echoes of October are calling A halo, that reconciles a mysterious monarch moon A mono grip in which summons a mysterious voice of sweet serenity Poets posting poems along the midnight page Each poet can compose a poem and mimic free fallen verses, One might call it a creative craving curse, Webmaster's whose words speak for themselves Voiceless- They feel, and spills the will of idolized ink, Blind-handed, splitting day from night Warm whispers, needing no food to consume Migraines of ink, feeding the soul Burning Pages, overused pens They've forgotten the pretty flowers Living like lions, who never comes out of their dens Murmuring and devouring, the enigmas of the unknown Eyes behind a sieve, close tighter than before, They hide nothing- A world created from every sky-scrape the wall Wanting to belong, a trick -or- treat*er in disguise No friends, everything is pretend These poets can’t be described, can't be believed They are the best in what they do For all you know this poet might be me, This poet might be you 9/3/14