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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

Powered by WordPress.com.

Up ↑

%d bloggers like this: