It was one of those long nights in winter

that tasted like sweet tea bourbon and a clove,

and which was just a little too long,

and a little too lonely, too.

The rolling hills, they seemed to know them well,

these nights,

and nestle in the familiarity tonight,

oh these gentle giants.

Meanwhile, the stars were far and the truth farther,

disguised by a thick and heavy layer of clouds,

seduced by a darkness that was almost sincere.

Some lonesome lover bathed in blue

ink and words of sorts

and plans that he called dreams

behind his curtains and in the candle light,

the source of all warmth

and the surrogate womb of the poetry that had yet to

emerge on the page.

If fear is really the devil’s greatest illusion,

then is weariness not his latest muse,

and what remains

if pity has no say no more?