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.

Freedom to fly
to another side

to have a truism
that is just a ride

to be trumpeted
where the dusted

canvas leans. Each
greased palm gleans

harmony in these
steps we’re taking.

The hum of the tracks
means there’s no going

back, remove your
hands so I can see

your face. In the smoke
and growls we can be

free; in the choking of
vowels, we are glee.