The middle of the night.

A word comes,

A phrase, a verse,

The first hint of a rhyme.

All, in the midst

Of sleep and time,

Are lost.

At no apparent cost.

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The life blood of the being of our world

Is thinking, creativity and art;

These bourgeon through our minds and through our veins

And make us feel uplifted in our heart.

Their practice may produce art few will like,

And writings with which many won’t agree,

But comfort’s not the point of inspiration,

At least not when society is free.

But those in power, of whateve...

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