This hour of the blackened cry
Mysterious as to so the beyond of this sky
Silence lulls to a calmer state
With melancholies of mind marking mournings
Of unknown reasonings, of the bleeding
Of memories of innocent distances of time
It hits so different, each word spoken in the
Lightless of moon to each part of psyche
The pen flows as if water trickling down
The windows of a rusted car on May's last day
Songs of agony, poignant, touch and leave
Their marks in ways they never could
Under the brightness of the stun of sun
The mystery of the magic of the devil's hour
Rather wrongly termed, perhaps
To derive gentlefolk of the power of silence
For destinations remain a beauty so long
As they never are flocked by herds of eyes
Some things perhaps be kept latent, misunderstood for the placid of purity
And so the tears of this beautiful dark never could hurt
For they bring peace, more so like the white dove,
Only this one chance, rendered black to stress
The eyeful calm at the stroke of this midnight hour
When vocals so nightly loved fall into place
For their greater effects
To turn the humour of eye into the smiled
Flow of salted water
With the lyric and tear and memory
This midnight hour shall have me so enchanted for a lifetime, however short or not
This midnight hour shall love me and so I love it back.
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