
Shuttered Sound
In this cool twilight
where we lay
and say our prayers
we grimace at each
sound that stills the
quiet moon.
The motorcade of misery
and bustle of metal cart;
these lashing tongues of
crunching words
bounce heavy on these slats.
Light plays against dark
without sleep
in its wide eyes.
I blink into the gloom
to recount
each retold story by the wise.
In this cool twilight
nestle deep into the
dreaming, ‘fore the
passing madness
finds a passing shine
upon the ceiling.