The hands of the clock running

at different paces all day,


at the strike of midnight.

Midnight is for the mourners

to shed thieir skins of restrain,

to reminisce

and cry out all the pain.

Midnight is for the lovers

separated by nations and continents

to exchange calls and texts

and give their miseries some rest.

Midnight is for the lonely

to stare at the skies and awe

or for the senile artist

to paint and draw.

Midnight is for the ghosts

of humans and emotions alike

to rise from their places of rest

and strip the living of respite.

-Iflah Laraib