The Midnight Hour. A poem.

In the blackest, midnight hour,
wandering perpetual halls,
wondering if you’ll clear
your dreams of demons
and finally get to sleep.

Your trackless thoughts
always return
to her and her alone;
You grasp your hands and suddenly
she’s there—your futile ghost.

Perhaps you’ve lost
your pleading mind,
far from the brink of sane,
until the sun begins to rise
and you Rest In Peace, again.

poetry books - stevestillstanding

For more of my poetry, check out Poetry for the Sad, Lonely and Hopelessly Endangered and The All or the Nothing, available in print or e-book formats.

Click here to find out how to get your copy.

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