Midnight sings the blues from the rooftops
Of old washed up little lighthouses
Where ships don’t come, anymore.
Midnight having had her fill
Of blood and flesh,
Sings to the moon.
Midnight makes new friends out of faces
And the shadows grow longer and longer
And they become things that create shadows.
Things with dust, and history, and that smell
That only old, forgotten things ever have.
So midnight, sits on roof tops, and basements
And endless corridors
Singing the blues.
The hum of the night that is always there in sleeping worlds
The sounds that penetrate dreams and nothing else.
Midnight sings the blues like a free black man,
Waiting for the bus to everywhere else,
In anticipation of friends.