It’s one a.m.; traffic is muffled on black velvet streets
Where want of slumber and the taunt of poetry competes
As soundless warriors of hunger and hope dredge the deep
To find amongst the masses, poets not yet fast asleep
The night is like an inkwell full of words waiting to be
They rankle in recesses vexed with ‘almost poetry’
Then let the dreamers dream their dreams in lands of sweet repose
No one can tame the Muse’s will as every poet knows
The rose is void of form or beauty until it breaks free
And word is like a storm of duty without poetry
For who, if not for poets, will potential poem find?
And who, if not for poets, can paint pictures on the wind?
Hark, hark, the dark is deeper after one a.m., my dear
The Quiet like a keeper of the poet’s smile and tear
Where words beguile in spite of common senses such as sleep
For who, if not for poets, will snare whispers from the deep?
© Janet Martin