The night is quiet,
The room is calm.
The sky is fired,
The moon is glam,
I sit looking at my computer screen,
Can’t catch a flick,
Can’t sing or weep,
It’s therapeutic when you listen,
To the voice in the silence,
How the congruence in all the order,
And the symmetry of night,
Screams louder than a motor,
Or ballast scraped on corrugated iron,
There is some nuance in that,
Some shy, demure, attractive feel,
Some terrifying romantic look,
That heals as much as it purges the soul,
I sit and think of what I will do,
When Thursday midnight hits,
And I be the first to welcome the month,
It’s 9 O’clock and I see,
Another tab just popped up,
It’s the Ancient book of Wales,
And,
My Microsoft Word,
Time to start a writer’s day,
That’s my regiment clocked
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