"Deep-Hour-Poetry"*****By Merlynna Harris

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In the wee hours of the Night, when    sleep calls out, but Sleep Just does not come right, the Words refuse to Yield, to be bound, and Tied so Tight!     Within my brain, Words, take off   In Bold...

In the wee hours of the Night, when

   sleep calls out, but Sleep

Just does not come right, the

Words refuse to Yield, to be bound, and

Tied so Tight!

 

 

Within my brain, Words, take off

  In Bold Flight; so now — I

    am up again, as

I continue to Write, and

I Wrote a short story, in the

Night.

 

My mind was traveling to That, of

   Beyond. — It traveled as High, as

   a Kite, in the Still Hours of My Midnight, when

Words Come  out of their Own, and

   by the Strength of Their Own Might, so

All I can do is to Continue, to

Write.

 

The Writings feel so right, Here

   in This Solitude, where I am,

   in these Late Hours, as

I continue to Write, where all else, is

  totally blind unto my sight Here, in this

Late Night's Sight.

 

I can write nothing Fancy, therefore

 only Humble Inner Thoughts Spill, So

As I, Glide my pen across the paper, a

Mind begins to Fly, as

   a Kite on a Long String, as It

Glides itself, and Soars Within, an

 High Sky's Flight!

 

An Image of, Inner Thoughts of Being, how else

Can the Inner Door be Open

To Literary Beauty, that This

Mind is Seeing?

 

                                                 Poetry by:  Merlynna Harris, 4/28/2016 Written, and Posted.

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

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