Acquainted With The Night

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I am acquainted with the night.
When the black ink of a moonless sky
spills across silent stars,
when reason slumbers and dreams dance
awake into the folds of fantasy,
when the solitude of each wind’s whisper
carries to me all I have longed for
beneath my breath,
an aching sits inside me,
awaiting me in a silver tongue,
and I taste my tears,
so freshly fallen as the drops
that grace branches dipped in dew.
There is a loneliness
in those marble clear, midnight hours
that rises and falls with passing minutes,
each second that sings of something
greater than the dark, damp deepness
entwining itself around
Insomnia’s shoulders.
My soul reaches for those
hidden shadowed spaces,
well acquainted with the night.

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