Midnight

Midnight

she struggled for a wisp of creativity,

strangled by her own mind's thoughts,

her fingertips were bone dry,

not a single blood drop of imagination,

and it's midnight,

and the rain is pouring,

and the drought is lifting,

and her bones are still dry...

thunder roars in the distance,

is it just her imagination,

or is there something out there?

The rain drops on her pane,

her heart stops as the lightening flashes,

and it's midnight,

and the rain is pouring,

and the drought is lifting,

her fingertips moist with

the fresh blood of creativity,

the sound of the rain on her roof,

pitter patter of the sound of her heart beat,

the slow and steady speed of the tears of heaven,

and it's midnight,

and her bones are no longer dry.