Feral tongues rise in whispered shades.

Nighthawks lift in dark air making

fair game of evening space. The time of

planning fills the room, settling on

the first sigh of sleep until dreams

slip to the floor.


Long talks have little effect on what

actually gets done, as words spin in

empty pocketsĀ like vortices

without drive.


There might be a blessing when

nothing fills the thoughts, but little done

can fail on hope, for what lives just past

your door.



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