Book of Midnight


The book of moonlight is not written yet
After midnight, I hear the thunder and rain
Lapsing between its clap
I am no longer alone
I partake in the lunar fire
Of meditating wakefulness
Before sleep, the lull of white tigers
How many poems did I deny myself
In a lover’s arms, an emanation of unity
Moonlight was an evasion
As was love, as was art, as was literature
I lived for the stroke after midnight
The touch of a delicate air
A vessel inwards of my spiritual nakedness
The poetic hero without palms
An inner minstrel of reincarnated prayers.

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