In late nights, through

bleary eyes and trembling hands

I find freedom.

 

The looming grade lost 

its gravity long ago, along with

junior year.

 

Without letters or one-hundreds,

work is fueled by rocket engines

of pure focus.

 

To students filling late nights

with cosmic notions, and ever-newer

knowledge, still:

 

When the packet ahead of you

has become a black hole

slowing time,

 

And the lamp beside you

a gleaming star of

misplaced energy,

 

And the entire universe

is you sitting at your

weathered desk—

 

Everything within reach,

no one can stop you from 

3AM freedom.