standing nude in midnight.

i remember when life blushed from simplicity's smile.
but midnight did not exist back then.

midnight is the breeding ground for festering fears of who we are , at the cold core.

'round the bare hands of the clock - when it grips the 12th hour- actualization caresses my neck and squeezes brutally all the same.

midnight has tickled the soul since infancy-

luring us into the temptation of night-

the depths of possibility, unwarranted truth.

Her lips are painted black and blue, leaving the mind with depression kisses.

She has sultry, cascading locks - heavy with dread.

nights missing paramours or those who are dead;

midnight seduces insecurity out of the corners of our soul with a nude, josephine dance.
midnight's mouth births tunes of heartbreak memories singing sweet songs-

like a siren, those same symphonies will crawl into your eyes & crack the walls of water dams. 

inhibition washes the feet of midnight.

suppression is exiled during midnight.

sanity is a stranger 'round midnight.
lack of light scrapes off our calm, bearing blood and flesh - leaving the soul susceptible to the mind.

there.

in the calm quiet darkness of night, we are left believing that we are the worst versions of ourselves.

midnight, with her legs spread and pushing - births the things that scurry in the light like roaches ...