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,
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?