3am Poem by Richard Spisak

3am (6)
@rwspisak

With 3am
I'm well acquainted.
Thus say some, my night is tainted.
Watch this hour, although
you may yet, be confused,
consumed by silence, or by silence ill-used, however not stressed.
Maybe prayerful, and duly blessed.

Your night's perhaps already tainted when you undress? And nearly Fainted?

Fancy, says I,
as I walk amidst those sleepers.
All those dreamers, in their richy thrones of dreams possessed. Somewhere out there in all that velvet slick and dreamy fog, SUCCESS!

They are all,
still similarly dressed, and yet all nights passed in quietude, e'en
though I'm am now QUITE fanciful and fantastically like Aladin's Lamp ornamentally and completely fully possessed.

I pluck from all these dreamers,
a little magic.
Sometimes, as if, only to weaken their journey, which COULD be tragic.
Steel little of that magick from their roiling tugging chains.
they'll never miss it, and they rarely complain.

While sweet sleep has seized their twitching awesome, bewitched blossomed and merrily bedazzled brains. I will trail and trace these whisps of graceful magic as I stroll past the Ivy GAR-LANDED place.

Figuratively I seem to steal from their dreams, a little madness here, or a smidge of droll there, which I might for a moment stealthily embrace.

Lo these many decades,
in my midnight rides sometimes,
with those gypsy pixies, I will tumble and collide.

Out to do their mischief,
so intent are they, charging there amidst the dreamers, oh such Merry mischief conjure they.

I, like a dreamcatcher,
will in my special diamond net,
I steal a little of their magick too,
within these fine-line fingers
figures set.

So as I later weave, yea these dreaming tales they'll oft possess,
more than a little,
of the master's joy, I must humbly confess.

I never count the minutes lost,
as missed or e'en unruly?
Say, whose to say, whats the cost,
I think of my magic midnight March,
And watch, more as a duty, not unruly
more than a blessing such bewitching
Scented richness never
ever dross.

This harvesting from dreams,
a noble haunt, or so it seems.
Delivering to those hungry ears,
Yea, indeed, these tables fables flaunt.

Embedded in this magic,
in these wisps of dreams, it seems.
Who can precicely measure out
our painted tainted yard of unruly and illwoven schemes?