Just Another Midnight
It seems to be midnight comes early At least that's how it's starting to feel With a share of the shadow To sharpen the harrow And add fistfuls of nails to the wheel With a lead footed feast of the senses To stick in the throat of the pure A hey nonny nonny A taut curse upon thee And a kiss in the blood to make sure And the dervishes sketch in the daytime The passionless plays in full bloom With the long daggered looks And the kindling of books To break backs for misreading the room To the marbled mystique of the ages They're doffing their caps as they pass In haunted sepulchres Full of second hand sculptures And daydreams of yesterday's glass For the wellsprings of virtuous whoring They trade catcalls of 'sell us a tune' In crestfallen silence Washed by armchair violence They sacrifice doves to the moon And still the twelfth stroke feels too early The witching hour chafes at the blade The oftspoken wonder The soul searching plunder The sleight of hand tricks of the trade So come all of you sure footed Pharisees With Philistine blood in the veins With brown shirts aplenty In the twilight a sentry To man the boats barges and trains Call out the cheap worthy slogans From the altars of broken down fame Asleep to the sadness Get high on the madness And hang the rags baptised in flame So yet again the midnight comes early Let's search for some reason to feel With a share in the shadow To sharpen the arrow And add fistfuls of nails to the wheel
This poem feels like walking through a city at night and realising the darkness isn’t just outside — it’s in the mood of the whole world.
There’s this tired, almost bitter clarity in the way the lines move, like someone who’s seen too much to pretend anymore.
I felt that mix of old‑world language and modern chaos, like history and the present are collapsing into one long, uneasy night.
The images — dervishes, sepulchres, broken fame — feel like ghosts drifting through a world that’s lost its sense of direction.
There’s anger here, but also exhaustion, the kind that comes from watching the same madness repeat itself.
“Midnight comes early” hits hard; it’s exactly how it feels when everything darkens before you’re ready.
The poem has this rhythm of someone walking through shadows, pointing out every hypocrisy along the way.
I could feel the frustration with the noise, the slogans, the people shouting without listening.
By the end, there’s this heavy sense that the world keeps circling back to the same darkness.
It’s bleak, sharp, and strangely beautiful — the kind of piece that lingers long after you stop reading.
Lovely poem! Thank you for sharing 🙏🏼✍🏼