Midnight Comfort

The clock strikes twelve, the world quiet and dim,

a hunger creeps in, with edges so grim.

A can in the pantry, my hunger's dark hymn,

metallic pop echoes, like life on a whim.

Steam rising gently, fogging the pane,

my thoughts drift away, from worries and pain.

Each spoonful is solace, like warmth from the rain,

with every small sip, the silence is tamed.

Canned comfort, I think, how easily it goes,

yet I taste every drop, as familiarity grows.

In the shadows I linger, where only I know,

that midnight can hold what daylight won’t show.