Midnight

Midnight.

There is no poetry to be found in this hour.
No delicate verse or rhyme.
Neither lovely language to woo you,
nor smooth rhythm with which to waltz you
around this empty page.

My muse lingers behind the curtain,
her satin dress desires to dance,
to twirl and flow freely within the music inside my head.

Yet, she hides. She hides and waits.
She waits hoping her small feet fly on their own,
pirouetting across the stage, spinning,
words landing perfectly. Like a poem.
Like a poem.

Like a poem. But there is no poetry to be found, so silence fills this hour.

I join her behind the curtain. And I, too, hide, waiting for her confident pirouette. Waiting for her song. Waiting for the chance to caress her hand as we spin wildly round the floor, words falling everywhere,
gathering in phrases, forming thoughts, emotions screaming aloud - happy, eager.

But here at midnight, there is no poetry within us.
No words to enhance this hour.
Only hiding and waiting,
while the stage lights grow dim,

then eventually fade.