Contemplative Dawn

A night owl draws in inspirational energy from the lucid time that haunts from Twilight hours to the pre dawn sky, a sample of perfection in the dusk light period that skirts the breaking glory of a renewed days glow

These words are not the phrasing I want!

A night owl drinks in the dead space between the dim light evening of everyone else’s bedtime retreat and thier rising to the over glaring sun, as red as the sunset offers it has no comparison to deep rich blood of a night owls tired venom that blurs blood shot eyes, sampling the sacred hours of isolated hollow time when the world is covered in z’s

Writers screamingly tear into glaring screens, dispelling thier creative fuel into flourishes of words to colour their readers a new shade of wow, a direct feed of black coffee and chocolate to give the shaking hands a continued flow till bodies fail and heads fly wild style to unkept beds to stock up on sleep, til the next crazed session of letter filled outbursts corrupt the page

Artistic rage a refined storm of paint and colour upon the vastly abstract canvas, that rests at the will of the creative nature of possessed visions from overloading minds in cog spitting, smoke pouring glory

Insomniacs in zombie mood mindlessly calculating sheepishly the numbers they numbingly count to bring into being that sacred state called sleep, wide eyed wonder shadowed by blackening sacks of skin that hang beneath fraught twitchy eyes, no hope to rest when restless reluctance holds in maddened states weary minds

To the night owls I say, a toast raised in champagne glasses formed of fractured pieces of day lit states that vampiric shun sunny days, ‘To the night, the dark and all that fills the space upon which we paint our dreams’

To the night owls….

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