Night Owl (Poem)
’Tis not of sin to be a night owl —
to ponder passionately, while more accepting of minds choose slumber.
For, to the moon, there’s reasons the wolves howl
and reason they do so in small numbers.
’Tis often said, “The early bird gets the worm,”
while ’tis seldom said,
“The late talon gets the juicy hare.”
Bless-ed is night, when the world noisily wiggles and squirms
not —
where forethought’s granted time to govern a head.
Without the tollway’s, railway’s, or runway’s balmy bellow,
one’s forced to mingle with their own unrealized dreams.
For, amidst the evening’s mysterious melodies and mellows,
from the sub-mind, man’s most innovate and life-saving ideas stream.
When the world finally shuts the hell up
at night
and stops screeching, “Stop being yourself,” up close in both our ears,
our kind quietly commits and develops
into everything the conventional mind lives to fear.
From the Soul,
