Thoughts at Midnight

Stand in defiance In the face of contrary winds, Your heart against the lips Of bullying whispers, Whispers that stand as titan walls, Like monuments planted upon Ever mountains, towers raised In rebellion Be kind to your own memories, Or not—I hardly care, Talk ill of that which you walked Out of, like a defiant fist raised against December winds— The streets are largely empty, Leaving you looking the fool With your fist raised to the surrounding Night—or not, I hardly care, For whether you’re kind or not Your memories will return home with you, Sitting as judge with you In the courtroom of your own mind, To pronounce the verdict on the fist you Raised in defiance in the face of Contrary winds Let the storm pass, The maelstrom of violent words and Strangely peculiar reasonings, Like a wet towel for a fever, Like ice upon a bruise, Like ash upon fire, Still your rumbling heart lest it Utters regrets, screaming obscenities Like a rabid crow or a disgruntled dog, Like a man whose mouth is at the Bottom of the bottle, For in the morning you will deny all You said, and the whole town will Brand you a liar In the end, your fist is yours As your words are yours, And whether you raise it in Defiance or not, I hardly care— The streets are empty, and There were no whispers to begin with