Late-Night Soliloquy

Caught by the drowsy fervor

Of a late night soliloquy

I muttered

Strange utterances;

Half sang, half-cried

Prose softened with sleep,

Imbued with the quicksilver passion

Of dreams.

Inspiration brushed me,

A white song of the moon,

Ephemeral, 

Evanescent.

Myself, softly crying,

The song, softly dying,

I spoke of my dreams.

Caressed by the cool light

Of the moon,

Which is not blue, nor white, nor gray,

but some spectral shade

That dissipates at day,

I waited, and wept

For the words to come,

like breath…