The Night Belongs to Poets and Mad Men

Midnight comes softly.

Not like a visitor but like a memory returning.

The world slows down and something inside begins to stir.

Old laughter finds its way back.

Familiar faces appear in the quiet of the mind.

Moments once lived begin to glow again in the dark.

I think of nights that carried long conversations.

Dreams spoken with reckless belief.

The warmth of someone sitting close enough for silence to feel like a language.

Somewhere, tonight someone writes a poem

for a love they have not held yet.

Somewhere, another mind wanders through

beautiful chaos, chasing meaning

in the quiet corners of thought.

The streets are empty but the heart is not.

It carries names.

It carries memories.

It carries the soft ache of things that almost happened.

Because when the world finally sleeps,

truth walks freely,

memories loosen their grip on silence,

and hearts dare to feel a little more deeply.

Daylight belongs to order and noise.

But night is different.

Night is when truth speaks quietly.

When longing becomes honest.

When the heart finally admits what it hides all day.

That is when the dreamers wake.

That is when the minds that wander begin to breathe.

Because the night belongs to the poets and the mad men.

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