In that time the ancients
called the death mist,
others the black sun,
he knows it as
the ‘tween times,
before new day has begun.
Ideas spring unbidden,
prompted by moonlight,
meditation not required.
Great rhymes are found,
written down, or lost,
no matter how inspired.
It’s the night shift,
poems bathed in shadow,
starlight used to burn
the words in stanzas,
each spinning on its axis,
a muse-ical nocturne.
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