The night.
A traffic of minds in the all active highway of the dark.
The rich mind sleeps, the poor mind weeps.
The painters brush, in a rush.
The writers words, no longer a hush.
Man and woman’s embrace, no longer disgrace.
The leave’s cling and the winds ring.
The poet’s rum awaits the morning sun.
A guitar strum, the player’s drum.
The lover’s hum, the joker’s fun.
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