Midnight Wanderer

Often, I am the mercy of my internal critic. It waxes and wanes like tides under the influence of a full moon.  Each word of my creations eroded by the crashing waves of scrutiny.

In rare moment, inspiration sails over the waters, no longer in search of the Isles of perfection.

Rarer still, when the object of inspiration is  as perfect as the tranquil waters in a cerulean cove.

Midnight Wanderer

My lovely lady dreams,

in my waking moments.

Within these alabaster halls,

your presence permeates.

Like a somnambulist

You are forever in motion,

wading along the the depths

Arrayed in the matter of stars

Silently, I voice my longing.

Unwilling to disturb the weaver of dreams

As she settles at the loom cloistered

betwixt life’s echoing chambers.

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