Poetry By, J. M. Lilin
Stranger brushstrokes brought over the colors of darkness; a stroke of hypotonic charm.
A landscape contrasting to what you are used to, for this landscape is up above in a texture of constellations.
Enchanting and enhancing; wishes of poetry beneath the throne of the moon which beholds pockets of midnight in a glimmer of wakefulness.
A fragrance of the universe, splattered out in starry patches of black and blue.
A work of art in a brilliant matter that glues darkness together into a shade of depression and dreams that could come true or be forgotten.
The wishes that fall as authentic, white purity that only the stars of midnight could contain.
Souls sleeping under roofs, souls sleeping in the unknown, and souls sleeping in a heap of snow – they all see something as a surface when they awaken.
When they awaken to the unsigned writer inside of them. When the unsigned writer hiding in the attic of their mind prods them to recognize the bliss of the sky stroked in darkness and dazzling marbles of glossy radiance.
Similar to the fires that burn in wings of inspiration; fireflies of motivation giving a push to imagination and creation.
Oh, the melody. The illumination of waking up in the late hours and walking through pitch black to open the door to the kiss of a knock.
A slight sound created not by the sound of crickets nor stars. A slight sound, or a slight knock, inspired by the fist of midnights melody.
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