The night owl

Call me the night owl. The sun is finally setting on this time. And, I never felt better. The time grew foul and it flew away with the rest of the fowl. It flew, and I can’t get it back. But it’s okay. It’s going to be a new day. In an hour or two, possibly more.

Call me the night owl. I spent a time in solitude to hide my attitude. Some people understood. Some people refused. I lost a friendship or two, and myself for a second or two. But I found what’s true and good—in the meantime—my tongue bled from all the chewing and swallowing my words. I swallowed my pride when I took another chance at love. The bitter taste fed my heart and made me hate how I felt, with every beat. It made me hate the feeling of the night.

Call me the night owl. I’m never hiding from the days again. For the ones of the light to stare with their gaze, in vain. It’s going to be a good day. Now that my tongue and heart healed from the venom, it’s going to be a good day, in an hour or two, possibly more.

It’s going to be a good night.