The Midnight Hour

The cold side of my bed, red velvet
Untouched but by my hands
Stretching in half yawn and half a desire
Towards the table lamp
Wobbling upon a hairpin
Left long ago
By some fair maiden
Made of watercolor.
Her’s were the feet
That last felt the rough carpet
And ruffled it’s fur the other way
So she could see herself better
In the mirror across the hall
Draped in rutilant rays;
Those rashes of love
I left, crawling upon her eggshell skin
Every midnight
When I tasted terror through shuttered windows
And felt the curtains
Stand, solid in the wind
Like a frozen moonbeam
Sequin with dust
To mimic purposeless limbs
Warm glistening skin
Pulsing against denial and dirt
That awaits all men
Beyond this mortal ken; gossamer thin.
My numb fingers
Polished thus with prophecy
Brushes aside the labyrinthine light
So the table lamp falls; and all fur is on fire,
And wax walls swell
In ersatz desire
While the hairpin, blue steel,
Fragrant with pine
Swivels endlessly upon the edge,
Her chimera, a restless womb;
The desire to die
Without ever being born
And be beautiful forever
Having never being torn.

Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.

3 thoughts on “The Midnight Hour”

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