I am most awake
when everyone sleeps.
The crepuscular hours
are when my mind begins to mature,
begins to unfold its crannied wings,
stretch out long and wide,
and leap into the darkness
where only imagination can catch me.
I prefer the blotted blackness,
muted only by light to write.
I am at home here.
It is thick,
and enduring,
the blackness.
It seeps
and sticks to everything,
making its way
into the coldest cracks,
coloring shadows
with its dull shade.
The darkness
is where imagination germinates,
where colors come to life,
where machinations shift
and shudder
and move with the mind.
I like it here.
It animates
the dull landscape
tainted with hot waves of gold.
The darkness turns you inside out,
it takes your mind
and diverts it inward,
for it has no where else to go,
no where else to explore,
but within.
I am awake,
more awake than ever before,
in the darkness.

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