"Sooner or later, somehow, anyhow, I was bound to write a novel. It seems vain to ask why. Men are born with various manias: from my earliest childhood, it was mine to make a plaything of imaginary series of events; and as soon as I was able to write, I became a good friend to the paper-makers."Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

Friday, 2 March 2012

Beautiful Insomnia

Beautiful Insomnia

Midnight. The empty street lies still and alone,
lit only by a shining silver puddle in the sky,
resting regal in the heavens on her cloud throne.
The world is silent now, no-one watching it but I,
none dare to disturb the ghostly quiet of the night,
held in a lifeless calm, not dead, just sleeping.

The trees with their skeleton hands offer applause
to the nocturnal birds that dance with the soft wind.
A lone feline ventures into the open, then withdraws,
fading into black velvet shadows like a Cheshire grin.
Darkness wraps up the familiar sights in his embrace,
and distorts them beyond my recognition.

Only at night can I see the world through new eyes,
and I wonder if this is why sleep remains out of my reach,
so that I do not miss the studded diamonds in the sky,
or the haunting melody of the owls as they screech.
I feel no frustration at my restless mind tonight,
I am content to seek out the beauty of the dark.

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The second of my three TMA Poems, this time just an excercise in rhyme and imagery.

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