Masterpiece
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.
Comments
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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.
If you wish to post a comment you must login.
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Rolph David
Sun 15th Jun 2025 10:18
Stephen, your poem beautifully captures that all-too-familiar moment when inspiration teases us in the quiet hours, only to slip away before we can hold onto it. There’s a delicate melancholy in the acceptance of those lost verses—like ghosts of creativity that visit but won’t stay. Thank you for giving voice to that elusive feeling with such clarity and grace.
Regards,
Rolph