The birthing of articulated expression
will always find its means of entering
into the world outside and beyond
the inner recesses of our awareness.
I love the wee and trippy hours of the
after midnight when the glass slipper
lay glimmering aloof in the moonlight
and the weary dreamer sets some
ink of thoughts onto the parchment
of a woozy head - too early in the day
to be about one's inescapable routines
too late in the night to do but dream
This is the witching hour in a life
where most everything is transfixed
in the baffling clarity of cerebration
the muses dancing in glad celebration