Outcast Hours

In the wee of the night when I’m left

alone with my thoughts, I sit in the land

of the living with my emotions cast in

the ocean, my mind in unknown dimensions,

and my will choose to listen to the voices.

I blind my eyes and seal my mouth,

for seeing is deceiving and speaking is treason,

leaving only my ears to hear pure silence.

But silence is yet and still is the loudest

noise one will come to know of.

The heated blood that runs through my veins

made my pen its new host and gives the

pad a frostbite touch as the ink pierces

in black writing. I sit on the hills in the

darkest night, gazing into the heavens as I

chant to the moon and converse with the

12 tribes. The

The wind brings me the sounds of mumbling.

Child, slumber no longer. On my words, listen

not to your heart but your soul. The thoughts

of a man is only as good as his last move.

In the wee of the night when words become

the sharpest blade, so sharp it cuts the flesh

and pierces the soul, the ink on my pad paints

a vivid picture of the night before and sets

the scene of a story untold.

When I’m left alone in the darkness, I breed

the breath of pain and shed tears of flames.

Naturally, I’m here mentally. I’m nowhere near

the physical atmosphere. In the wee of the

night, I sit and write about my life.

It’s time to hide. I can now see the sunrise.

Akeel Louison

BlackRose Archive