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by Logan Author IconMail Icon
Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2239083
An ode to those who listen in our darkest hours
Midnight Conversations

Midnight conversations yearned,
discussions hung up till the dawn;
camped beneath a canvas, taut,
such lessons set, conceived... they're born

Let loose beneath a starlit sky,
absorbed within a cooling night;
where formerly, a bright sun blazed,
a canvas white, clean, cloudless... light

Empty space, a blank page spread,
to draw upon, with such hopes high;
unexpected faces, fresh,
with brushstrokes broad, we paint... we try

We try to paint a scene at ease,
we try to feign a front so brave;
when what we have is what we need
... a lucky golden stunt engraved

Landed somehow, safe inside,
a canopy unplanned, so blessed;
a place to lie, an offer vied,
so hard to understand, to guess

to comprehend such wheres and whys,
that brought you safely to this place;
from steps so brave, to places shy,
the sanctity of freedom, space

Spaces pined, for so much time,
with races long and caution run;
advantages not taken, signs,
over thought... and under done

A moment blessed, a nightfall cursed,
in memory, cast long, it burns;
a soul undressed, a spirit pursed,
regretting how such seasons turn

to times of isolation, wound,
through memories, nostalgia stings;
ideas out my station, found,
the fleeting notions that they bring

Dreams so hard to grasp, embrace,
just seemed so wrong to take, to try;
when someone offers up their space,
they really should be knowing why

know why it matters, oh so much,
to refugees they've taken in;
the fear that we're taking such
... such liberties found deep therein

with moments never planned for, found,
lost in unexpected sights;
conversations 'neath a canvas, ground,
in hotter days and cooler nights

A sun imagined, brighter still,
than perhaps it truly was;
pooling in a slighter rill,
running slowly, at a loss

with gifts exchanged, remotely sent,
we take the trinkets, we can get;
questioning how things are meant,
in contrast to the answers set

Underneath a quiet moon,
as sleep draws light and thin tonight;
an end that's promised, coming soon,
riding on dawn's early light

'midst landslides slipped where such hearts lie,
whilst floods flash though, without much form;
lost in the cyclone of her eyes,
with stormfronts massing, breaking... warm

A storm we hope might grant us calm,
a straw of which to strive, to clutch;
displaying excess canvas harms?
... or editing ourselves too much?

Doubting when, and whether... why,
the mind should lead the heart... the flesh;
whilst something in the ether lies,
netted deep within the mesh

Hitched down in dour weather, pegged,
a sun sets slowly in the west;
to fields spanned forever, begged,
pitched down, noted with the rest

Remembered on the pages, marked,
recorded in the words... infers;
an opus for the ages, harked,
on life's margins, ink fades, blurs

as memories line sunsets, raw,
silver cut back to the bone;
in the marrow, sublet... stored,
a chosen sun goes down alone

with night-time constellations found,
selected stars, so rarely seen;
to the earth, our camps are bound
... spaced too far and wide between

with midnight conversations longed,
abandoned, buried in the past;
Underneath a canvas strong,
'midst memories that burn and last
© Copyright 2020 Logan (stipey at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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