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Late night writing. Always a byway into the heart. I wonder often at my reluctance to come here. The house, quiet – shadows pale common views of familiar objects and I slip into contemplations.

Most often I find writing at this time a reprieve from the world. A midnight friend fades out of sight like the afterglow of an old black and white movie on a television turned off mid-stride. My desire is to turn it back on, but I cannot locate the muse. She remains distant.

Writing at midnight begs the surreal and the dreamer and the fearer and the lover and the lost soul. Answers become sought after but rarely found, yet the mere act sates.

Sates what? Who can tell. In a land where answers become phantom and questions comprise the fabric of the mind, there is nothing to winnow out other than a purge, along with the satisfaction of repelling sleep at least an extra hour.

Writing at midnight can meander, as this post. Sometimes, the long and winding thread leads somewhere special. Other times, the simple victory of writing without agenda soothes and placates a weary heart.

Let’s try our hand at poetry, shall we?


Lies. Broken glass relationship
Scattered by manipulative character assassination
All in the name of religion, of all things, yet
No purity of truth to be found.

Misrepresentations – a victim’s vindictive personal crusade
Wielded vicious, never less than painful,
Cruel gouges that drive away the goal,
Never to reunite.

Treachery as means of reconciliation?
Only weakminded dolts see wisdom there,
Yet reality chills an open heart.

Patterns of subtle abuse, honed razor slick,
Defended with surface words that sound sensible but
Mask a sickness – incurable and contagious.
Blame a most precious weapon.

What a pity the one who wages the war
Presents as the pretty little victim
While the object of attack suffers in silence,
Pronounced guilty by propaganda purveyor and greedy ally ears.

Fascinating how the ears judge but one side
No care or thought that regurgitated “truths” are nothing more than a hint.
People who should know better, hurt by untruth, still
Buy into mouthloads more for the mere price of commiseration.

Witness the human condition.
Shallow minds backed by shallow hearts.
Manipulative victim plays out the endgame
So the world may be shown – “See here? See my pain?”

A heart with the capacity of a thimble
Passes critical judgements based on self-sold falsehoods
While the besieged selects the path away –
Toxicity a repulsing push that sets him free.


Interesting where that went. Bitterness visits at this early hour. I’ve been dumbfounded by crafted and twisted words without much truth behind them. I hold the dubious distinction of observing just how devious someone toxic and trapped in victimhood can be.

As usual, this poem comes unedited and straight from where I’m at. Like it or loathe it. I meet people each day who understand the heart’s need. I also meet and know all too well those who deny the heart even its bare necessities for survival.

Alas, my intended trip across an ocean did not materialize in this morning’s poetry. Sometimes the heart must cry out…