Midnight Ride

In the quieted domain of 12 PM's hug,

At the point when shadows hit the dance floor with calm elegance,

A solitary rider mounts the horse,

Leaving on a 12 PM ideology.

Washed in silver's ghostly gleam,

Through the obsidian night they go,

Hooves murmuring on the trampled ground,

In the quietness, a spiritualist sound.

Underneath the moon's ethereal look,

A stealthy excursion through time's labyrinth,

With each hoofbeat, a story unfurls,

Of mysteries murmured and stories untold.

The night sky, an infinite material immense,

An embroidery woven in shadows cast,

The rider, a ghost in the lunar shine,

Ahead they ride, the night to plant.

Through old woods, where murmurs live,

An orchestra of mysteries, no place to stow away,

The trees, similar to watchmen, bow and twist,

As the 12 PM rider looks to rise above.

A shroud of secret cover the rider's structure,

A ghost underneath the divine multitude,

Dashing through the hidden 12 PM,

An outline against the silvered light.

Stars, similar to precious stones, stud the evening,

Directing the rider on this ethereal flight,

Heavenly bodies tell stories from past times,

As the 12 PM rider looks for something else.

The breeze, a quiet friend,

Conveys the rider's murmured captivate,

Reverberations of stories from a time long since past,

Blending the 12 PM air, an immortal sage.

Through valleys profound and mountains high,

Under the tremendous, open sky,

The rider and horse move pair,

A nighttime dance, a phantom song of praise.

Fog ascends from charmed streams,

Moonbeams winding around glowing dreams,

In the domain where night grabs hold,

The 12 PM rider, dauntless and striking.

The world snoozing in serene sleep,

Ignorant about the rider's 12 PM number,

However, in the core of haziness, a guide,

A solitary rider on an excursion implicit.

In the quiet hours, the spirit takes off,

As the 12 PM rider rides as the night progressed,

A searcher of bits of insight in the grandiose ocean,

Directed by the stars' quiet declaration.

Through fields of silver, they advance,

Pursuing the reverberations of the blurring day,

12 PM's mysteries woven into their mane,

The rider and horse, a divine rule.

As first light methodologies with tones of gold,

The 12 PM rider's story starts to unfurl,

An excursion through the spiritualist evening,

A sonnet written in the lunar light.

Thus, as the sun rises,

The 12 PM rider blurs from mortal eyes,

In any case, in the hearts of the people who dream,

The reverberations wait, a divine crease.