Midnight


“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary.” – Edgar Allan Poe

A voice cries before midnight, and he hears it as a “Hermit Thrush“, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still before midnight. This is mystery.

The weaver comes to finish work, that is of his own hand, in the darkness from near Boat Mountain the seraphim walks so fast. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He bathes before midnight, in a dream that’s of falling sand, like a curtain from lost ages, that last barrier to the promised land. With the whispers of angels that ask for his hand, bloodless in their quiet talk, they shimmer where they stand. They whisper with lyrics from the “Hurdy Gurdy Man“, derived now, while praying six stars to Neverland. He murmurs, he whispers, “I do think of fathoms of distances without end, sometimes before midnight, it scares me if I Am.” “How far up Jacob’s tree, to the mother that sews, the end of purpose, from my life of promise, here in the gardens of G_D’s shadowland. This rocky earth soothed by the blade in a farmer’s hand.”

The weaver moves like a danseur, counting a six-pronged display, the seal moves around the bowing angels, their inner eyes on display. Comes he to spin sounds past breathing, an instrument of the past. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass. Dusk has fallen to its knees, and midnight is soon to pass.

He thinks of time like a battlefield, in life’s journey from end to end, all day breathing blood and fury, until the dusk arrives on wind. All his thought from his first day of wonder has been, a catalyst, a catalyst to this very end. All around his valley moves, his valley moves within. Sulfur Springs rising evening vapors, near Boat Mountain where life began. The soil cries out unto its maker, I cannot produce again. Minutes leading him from faith’s beginning toward midnight to turn again. Demarcation in a weakened body in a movement by a hand, pocket watch stopped at midnight in the crossing with no bends. Turning in his bed clothes, to begin all life again. Turning in his bed clothe, to begin all life again.

A voice cries after midnight. He does not hear it. It is a “Hermit Thrush”, flute like, ethereal, rare for winter, rarer still after midnight. This is mystery. – 10.10.2018 – דָנִיֵּאל

 

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77 thoughts on “Midnight

  1. I loved this post. Classic in wording with so many memorable lines but one toward the beginning does it most for me, “He bathes before midnight, in a dream that’s of falling sand, like a curtain from lost ages, that last barrier to the promised land. ” ❤

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  2. Perfect story Daniel, I felt a personal touch to it. Was the old man someone close to you? Your words were lyrical and filled with lessons from a life well lived. Once again a favorite for me. ❤ ❤ ❤

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  3. My brother, you have touched my very soul with this piece of well-crafted writing. It could be very well titled a man of the earth speaks. It’s as if I can hear my father speaking from beyond life. He was a farmer. Thank you. Shalom, Den

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  4. Dear Daniel,
    Like many of your readers I found the personal connection involved in this piece to be endearing. The main character reminds me also of my Father toward the end of his life. This meant much to me. Thank you. ❤ Ruby

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  5. I enjoyed Midnight very much Daniel. To be so fortunate at the end, to reflect and know what is going on around ones self. To be ready to go forward. Always forward. Thank you my young friend. Bill

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  6. “Dusk has fallen to it’s knees”, loved the description. One my favorites you have written here. We go on from this life, I am convinced of it. A gift to go at midnight.

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  7. “How far up Jacob’s tree, to the mother that sews, the end of purpose, from my life of promise, here in the gardens of G_D’s shadowland. This rocky earth soothed by the blade in a farmer’s hand.” I loved this!!! ❤ 🙂

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  8. Hi Daniel, There was something about your description of the older man’s death that was so peaceful. His reflection on life, the reverence of angels, and the hour of midnight. Another well done piece. ❤

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  9. Intense and amazing visuals in this prose, Daniel!
    Hurdy Gurdy Man is perfectly paired with your writing.
    OMG! The visuals in HGM are gorgeous… the gowns, the long hair, the castles, Lady Godiva………that odd noise from the Hurdy Gurdy.
    It’s given me an idea to think on.

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