Midnight Oil
In the stillness, a lantern flickers,
Its flame a sentinel for thoughts lost, found.
The rhythm of shadow and light
Writes verses in the attic of memory.
The mind stirs, a gentle tide,
Echoes awaken, soft and sure.
Elusive whispers now take form —
A fleeting idea returns with grandeur.
We burn the midnight oil,
The creative flow taking us beyond our limits.
It fuels us — a surge, a spark — fleeting brilliance,
Lost to the shadows before the light consumes it.
We battle against the lost words, the lost ideas,
Those flashes of insight so brilliant they vanish in an instant.
And yet, the oil burns deeper, pulling us forward,
Until we exhaust it — and ourselves — chasing the dawn.
Oh, midnight oil, your burn is painful,
It frustrates and infuriates, and feels never-ending,
Until, at last, unexpected, the thought does rise,
It illuminates what the day concealed,
The “Aha!” of recollection that wakes the soul at dawn.
By Mark W. Van Dyke (April 2025)
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