The Hours of Night Pour through the casement,
Secret, Yet Unhidden,
Clutching at my Train of Thought;
An Addiction that’s Unbidden.
Twilight circles Menacing outside the Darkened door,
Her Indigo spread wide,
Cloaking all my Reticence,
Until I’ve nowhere left to Hide.
The Hours strike and echo in this Brazen Reverie,
Impervious to Haste,
With You, Initiative is Sweet,
Though rarely ever Chaste.
~Morgan~
Reblogged this on John Cowgill's Literature Site.
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Beautiful poem, Cynthia. I love the haunting quality.
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