Midnight has returned once again.  It’s inky blackness covers the light of the day, lulling the bustling inhabitants, creating a sort of quiet like never before and impossible to achieve during the hours where the sun glares from the sky.  Midnight sings the sweet lullabies of dusk, dawn, and dark, spreading its wings and readying for flight.
The beauty of those wings, dark as the blackest cat, yet silky as a kitten’s fur, bringing calm, serene peace.  Somewhere under her wings, where her children sleep, glad that the harsh realities of the day have gone once more, there is still life, not affected by her quiet song, but instead inspired and just awakening.
Midnight, in all her beauty and with the sweetness of her song, accompanies the midnight writers, inspired by the still and quiet around them.  Their pens, pencils, markers, and fingers create wonderful worlds, soaring high on their friends wings, enjoying all the gifts she brings to them, hoping to be bound to her as if by a spell, dreading when the sun rises again and the realities they begged her to help them escape from return. 
There are healers, rushing to aid those who had fallen victim to the wings that lulled other, hoping to save a life or cure a broken heart or two.  They act quickly, enthralled by the wings of Midnight that led them to touching a life, but hating her all the same as she allowed her wings to cloud others and inspire violent incidents, some unavoidable and others inevitable. 
She calls to those who guard all citizens, asking and sometimes begging them to take action and save those who may be called to or fallen victim to her wings.  She calls on them to protect those she could not tame with her song and those that she could not protect from herself and the lullaby turned siren song.  She calls on them to honor their badges and fight for those who could not, and she thanks them with the coming of a new day in which they can feel proud and alive, allowing to feel as if they aren’t just surviving, but are living.
Midnight asks the young to dream of her, asleep in their beds, pictures dancing in their minds, some of joy and others of fear.  She asks their guardians to guard them when she can not, to take care of them as she wished she could, and to light the room when she became something that the young could only fear.  She passes over them in shelters of all kinds, softly and quietly, granting them peace that the sun would end.
Although Midnight in all her glory is a wondrous thing, she leaves each night and turns over her place to the bright and cruel sun that calls for those realities that her children try to escape when they seek shelter underneath her wings.  She flies away, black wings changing into pinks and purples and blues as the sun pushes her away for his own gain.  She leaves, sometimes with her companion, the moon, and other times with only her lonesome self, bidding farewell to those she blankets each night with her wings, black as ink and silky as a kitten’s fur.  But she does not mourn for long as she returns each night to watch over those who needed her, and she blankets them once again.  She inspires them, protects them, and lulls away the worries of the day.