In the writer's solitary moments

I have always managed to do most of my writing in the latter part of the day. There is something about the quietness and stillness that is transported during that period of the day after the sun has set. This little vignette touches on such moments for me;


The Dark Hours

The rain has its way
(Like some foreboding thought)
of seeping through the
slightest
of window cracks...
Wetness pervades,
stillness invades
in this night’s late light, late hour.
Contemplation extends long,...long into night’s false
umbrage– no resolution in sight.
These are the dark hours;
night passages made by those who
do no not seek the soft comfort
of warm linen sheets.

Solitude;

The taciturn oneness of being
within the great magnitude...conveyed.
The cycle is played – the repetitiousness
remade (of men & flies)– tedious, arduous and permanent
the permafrost of our collective
perpendicularity.