The Midnight Hours. III.

The midnight hours call to me.
Beguiling enticements drifting saccharine and feather soft on the breeze.
Lilting lullabies for the dreamers wandering lost,
melodic, tempting, treacherous.
Enveloping me in the invincibility of a landscape tinted grey.
Shades of moral ambiguity.
I am a fateless gypsy dancing with wolves,
recklessly twirling beyond the grasping reach
of my own humanity and I wonder
If I too
can spin fast enough

to escape.

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The Midnight Hours. II.

The midnight hours call to me.
Whispers heavy with the seductive weight of promise.
They sink claws into my spine and pull,
taunting, insistent, magnetic.
Luring me in with the indomitable thrill of the hunt.
Beckoning inexorable and enticing.
My heart beating the tattoo of war drums,
a primal homage to the warriors of old,
Gladiator and lion alike and I wonder
if I too
am to one day

be the hunted.

The Midnight Hours. I.

The midnight hours call to me.
Darkness given voice with the siren song of countless sleepless nights
The world looks different in the moonlight,
Softer, colder, kinder.
Laid bare in the lingering light of an unseen star,
Spread naked and waiting.
Muted with the hush of deference beneath a spilled ink sky,
a graveyard of glittering ghosts
telling stories of the powerful and the arcane and I wonder
if I too
will be remembered

when I’m gone.

Better When I Was Worse

I can’t help but wonder if I was a better writer when every part of my life and psyche was still an interminable mess, back before I figured out how to get it just a little together.

Or at least before I learned how to make it look that way.

Continue reading Better When I Was Worse