Moonlight mystique,
Traverses the air.
The mocking bird is my friend.
His song comforts my silence,
Empathy is not far away…
As stars take their rightful place,
In an extensive sky.
Predestination seals its beauty,
Alluring in their prime.
Darkness won’t ever crumble,
To the lull of a forthcoming dawn.
Sing mocking bird sing,
Lyrics need not triumph…
Endurance I can muster,
Hold my rightful place,
As median to what is drawing near,
And what is left behind…

(c) Monica St Hillaire.



The dead of night,
Beckons the call,
Of drowning silence,
That inevitably infiltrates,
The zealous mind…
Laying in bed,
Passive median to,
Dream and reality,
Gently gliding in,
Steadfast trance.
A defining moment,
Luminosity in my Eureka,
Embedded in the epiphany,
Enraptures inside my head.
I oppose the astral night,
And gloomy day…
Metaphors magically fall.
But there is a chronological,
Method to my madness,
A song for my sorrows,
And praises for the beauty,
That intrigues the soul.
In these 2 am predicaments,
I will pause for the motion.
The corner stones I see.
I will build my foundation,
Long live poetry..

(c) Monica St Hillaire, 2021.


Photo by Johannes Plenio on

Walk in the naked truth; the bare and absolute,
Falsehood will never endure.
That armoured attire is in vain.
Purity will unveil both day and night,
No grey clouds hang overhead.
Sterile and unpolluted from infectious deceit.
Clear as a sublime waterfall; watch me as I float.
Can't you see these streets of white?
Do you not feel serenity at your beckon call?
Leave imperfections by the wayside,
They hold no value here.
Purged from all malice; weightless is the feeling.
How do you sleep now that both eyes are shut?
Walk in the naked truth; the bare and absolute,
May honesty always be your guide.

(c) Monica St Hillaire, 2020.

(Photo by pixabay)