Midnight is for poetry.
Crass commercialism rules the day.
Midnight is free,
and reality goes away.
Daylight is for the Money God,
and we busy with our tedious employ.
Pay the bills we must.
(Not that it brings us any joy.)
Midnight is for poetry,
when undernourished imagination feasts.
At night, reason is absentee,
and nagging sanity is ceased.
Midnight, when the Money God sleeps.
Calliope upon her ever-flowing scroll enchants,
upon the Earth this magical muse creeps,
seducing solitary scribblers into poetic romance.
Author notes
I wrote this because I am nocturnal, and like all good readers of George Orwell who read his unrecognized classic, Keep the Aspidrista Flying, I hate the Money God. Thankfully, we poets find some relife at night.
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