she crawls in
an old hole
dug before time
was kept from
ourselves and after we
pretended to
start over again
clock strikes twelve
time to destroy ourselves
sails with tears
plugs in our ears
wings flustered folded inwards
sick flags on cold
rememberance days
history disappears
with each moon
and the barren frosts
eve crept in
and created the
inability to learn
from the distant past
washed up, ground up a
and melted into stasis like PAINed glass
for couture tombs unbuilt monuments of unmovement
left to joyless neglect
rudderless non-care forgotten metropolitan gestures
more exactingly broken out with rocks
by junkies pissing in the rain and cutting out..
there is no intro
the staccato doesn't matter
no flock to scatter at daybreak's welcoming
no waiting for the game to end
for your random turn to send
something away
grab something from a rush and hope that it stays
subject to the whims of the unknown
and whimsy of time
but meant to shine anyway
against a thousand sunsets
already set to fade.
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