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The Poet
During the hollow hours,
It is not darkness that frightens him.
For it is then,
In the moon speckled obscurity,
The poet in him arouses.
Words bleed from his pen,
And trickle down the page.
Wistfully, pensively,
He ponders into the quiet night.
Until light peers through a crack in the sky,
A wreath of blooming colors,
Stitching through darkness,
Glistening upon the ocean skin.
And the insomniac goes back to bed.
JG
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