Midnight-Thirty

Purple.
Purple again.
Flickers and strobes in the sky.
The sound of a humming drum,
And a tribal sky-quake.
There may come the tiniest hint
Of rain, of a drink for the plants.

I see the clapping, on and off,
Of the atmospheric lamps.
Is there brewing, a stirring?
Is there bubbling, a bellowing?

Blue.
Indigo.
Blue again.
The flickers and strobes in the sky;
Lying in the distance a shredding.
The gaseous white darkens,
And it glows ominously.
They all glow prolonged by
The elements of the sky.

The trees and the earth are dancing.
Cars, windows and walls
Illuminate, under the strobes.
Mirrors copycat blue, indigo and purple.
Shadows are casted and thrown.
The ethereal is made permanent
By the evanescent light.

It is midnight-thirty;
That time when magic is born
And it descends unto the world.
It comes with its own movement
And it dances on everything.

There goes the rain.
It pounces, prances and puddles
On the gentle surfaces.
It pangs, pings and pops
Off of the hard reflections.
It is midnight-thirty.
That time when hour is nigh
And minutes be still.
All is still.
All is alive and lively.
It is midnight-thirty.

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