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Writings at midnight

I always dreamt of writing,

Of want, of why, I do not know,

It always was inviting,

A yearning I could not forgo.

And as I sat and wandered,

I always dreamt of far off places,

Of sunny skies and smiling faces,

Of peoples dreamt in misty hues,

And seas that shined of endless blues.

Now my pen dances in my hands,

And makes a mockery of the words it commands,

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Linking them up in rhythm and rhyme,

So quickly it seems in so little time,

A gift, an out, what else could it be?

That leaves me in heartfelt company,

That I seem more than what I am!

As I sit awake writing at midnight,

Waves of ideas rush through my sight,

And though they roll and crash like a wave,

They soothe my mind in a peculiar way,

Could my pen ever truly uphold,

And divest all its feelings,

By the soul whom it holds,

Or would my pen send itself reeling?

My text I hold was written in doubt,

The words and phrases did nothing but sprout,

They had not taken root or shown any measure,

But as I read on they were a world of treasure,

The brilliance writ by my own hand,

It may be quick, it maybe grand,

Often soft and full of pain,

Like winter’s night or summer’s wane.

My beloved book holds writings of wonder,

Of dreams well kept and thoughts that slumber,

From buried deep within my head,

Save none to read until I be dead.

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