Twelve O'clock Poem by Kewayne Wadley

Twelve o'clock is near,
just as the moon hangs its gown
beneath its shoulder.
You glow just the same,
with not a single cloud in view.
The moon reveals its shoulder,
letting its silk gown hit the floor,
free to glow and release its kindred fire,
twinkling from star to star.

Sealed shut by your tongue,
as vast as time can be,
I am drawn closer to you, ready to replace
that silk gown with my skin,
an invitation snatched by the fire in me.
Eager to engulf anything of light
entering its stratosphere,
quickly tearing the envelope
before a single word is read.

Knowing the courage it takes to be yourself,
there are no shadows between us both.
Twelve o'clock is here,
as wholesome as the moon appears.
She has yet to remove her heels,
I too, plan to hang my head beneath her shoulder