November 9th, Midnight poem.

The moon exhales on the twilight

Leaves that crumble underfoot

Have no place left in the season

Swept away like past lovers

They fancy themselves artists

Suffering for beauty, unnoticed

As secrets slip by, unnoticed

Camouflaged expertly in the twilight

Hiding, as do artists

Poised on cotton foot

Spying on shopkeepers and lovers

To tell day from season

The needy grasp of the season

Does not pass the shopkeeper, unnoticed

To jumble hearts of lovers

Jealousy uses the trickery of twilight

And so cajoled, lethargic foot

To run from philosophers ad artists

And so compelled are artists

To hold fast the season

To rest their cotton foot

Hold tight companions, once unnoticed

And the sweet velvet of twilight

Soothes the lovers

And as do lovers,

They fancy themselves artists

Dressing poorly for the season

Worshipping the twilight

Seeking truth and beauty on foot

Feasting on the poverty of being unnoticed

If the brightest stars remain unnoticed

Strong still will burn the lovers

Cutting deeply into running foot

To set aflame hearts of artists

In one fiery explosion, twilight

Will be no more, for a season

Then there will be talk for the artists

Warmth in the beds of lovers

And ignorance of the power of twilight.