Midnight

I wrote this poem two days ago for my creative writing class. I was hesitant to read it aloud in class because I thought it would be so depressing, but my classmates found it oddly comforting. I find that incredibly unexpected...and appropriate.

Midnight

Midnight

What is Midnight?

His forehead wrinkles at midnight

The ocean a faded orange at midnight

The hour of midnight is a willow fallen in

Fall

The trumpets do not blare at midnight

The tornado will rest at midnight

The bamboo has broken,

The mountain crumbled by midnight.

Would a stomping foot hasten midnight?

Could midnight keep midnight at bay?

It creeps, crawls, scratches its way

Across our knees

To reveal that it is

Midnight.

And we do not run.