Midnight
Locked in myself, eyes of shadowed sight,
Mining for potential not realised yet.
I have not gained depth - a mere silhouette;
Like a tree at midnight.
Ideas I try to bring to light
Would fill a book- line, page, ream.
Instead they are shuffled to the realms
of dreams;
Cold thoughts of midnight.
I should be brave, not full of fright,
Then words would flow like a river.
But arrows that should fly are stored
all a quiver;
Bare skeletons of midnight.
If only once I would burn bright
And ignite the spark inside of me.
Oh, then would dawn my fantasy;
The passing of midnight.
© John Hunt July 2004
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