These late hours

They are full of fools

And rabble rousers

And men like me 

In these late hours

The artists toils

Demons that tickle their souls

Like the slight of hand

Making the flash of eyes disappear 

In these late hours

Pen strokes and images

That refuse sleep

Demanding the canvas 

The scene unfolds before the artist

In these late hours

Notes bidden by the empty air

The instrument shows no mercy to the masters hand

Blood stained strings requiem 

Played again and again

In these late hours

Leave me muse

I bid you sweet ado

I have no heart for you to play in

Go and leave this fool

In these late hours

Reviews

[Crumpet]

I like this. It's best when read so that others can hear, if only my dog in my case, and children who are in their rooms, pretending to be asleep and annoyed that I am reading out loud! I like the rhyme in this-- your muses did us all a favor by getting you to write this, I am sure that any of us can identify with it!

[Time's The Bond]

Cool read

[Shelley Holt-Lowrey]

Very glad to see your pen back at work. Where is your soul poet?