Post by AquarianM on Oct 1, 2007 at 10:30pmIn The Quiet Hours...
The clock rolls round past the mid-mark,
Into the space of the inside,
When we’re all closer to the ragged edges of space-time,
Not far from the gusher of raw undermind,
And specks of light fire the imagination,
Lack of sleep breaking down barriers,
Let us forget “reality” for an hour or three.
If you stand under the stars on these cool nights of fall,
Feel the hackles on you rise,
See off into distant space,
Feel closer to some ancient camp fire than electric lights,
Don’t worry much about it.
Poets do that all the time,
See things with inside eyes,
Illuminated more by heart-light than cold reason,
We touch the stuff of everything,
Trying to bring back a little something,
In the twisted little cacophony that words become,
When compared to that vision.
Maybe some night,
A hint of melody will follow them through,
Reason enough for this life’s quest.
By: Daniel A. Stafford