'Tis not of sin to be a night owl--
to ponder passionately, while more accepting of minds choose slumber.
For, to the moon, there's reasons the wolves howl
and reason they do so in small numbers.
'Tis often said, "The early bird gets the worm,"
while 'tis seldom said,
"The late talon gets the juicy hare."
Bless-ed is night, when the world noisely wiggles and squirms
not--
where forethought's granted time to govern a head.
Without the tollway's, railway's, or runway's balmly bellow,
one's forced to mingle with their own unrealized dreams.
For, admist the evening's mysterious melodies and mellows,
from the sub-mind, man's most innovate and life-saving ideas stream.
When the world finally shuts the hell up
at night
and stops screeching, "Stop being yourself," up close in both our ears,
our kind quielty committs and devlops
into everything the convential mind lives to fear.
From the Soul,
The Eye Wall 