09/30/10
12:00 amBrooklyn
Midnight
Its midnight.
The clock strikes with an indelible bullet
A salient image of a conqueror,
Set with an arrow about to pierce the sky.
It awakens the soul with stubborn persistence
As the day brought to a close
Memories of yesterday
Become tales of old.
Pleasant occurrences held frozen,
Dire ones, forgotten
Gave meaning to the emptiness,
Of an uneventful subsistence.
Its midnight
The clock ticks forward.
The mind is restless
Rousing the listless.
As the brightness dawns
Another beginning thrives.
A ceaseless recurrence
Of hope lost and found.
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