by Regina

While still in the fragility of youth,
and upon my first major depression,
the Midnight Horse began his nocturnal visits,
handsome in his resplendence
with a solid ebony body and hooves of silver,
he prances into my dreams,
whinnies, and announces his presence,
as if to say, "I am here",
Some people with depression talk of the black dog,
yet mine is the Midnight Horse.

On All Hallows' Eve
in my bath of moonlight he awakens me,
and a thought that comes to mind
is my distinct feeling that my brother in sorrow,
Edgar Allan Poe and I are kindred spirits,
and as I listen to the whippoorwill's song of lament,
I'll take a few hours sleep over none at all.

As the dark velvet hours of the night grow lighter,
my equine prince snorts and tosses his head,
his eyes two spheres of black pools,
he assures me he is always with me,
the stars sparkle on his coat
and the wind billows his mane and tail.

I think my spectral companions may be envious,
for since my younger years,
the Midnight Horse during the witching hours,
has always been my Guest Of Honor.



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