People don't have mades out here
they have dark thoughts deep in the night
they creep up on you like insects under the door
seeking the light by which you fold the corner of your page
they do the work themselves
coaxing dirt from clothing onto the cold stone
rubbing legs together like grasshoppers seeking mates
a lone note in a cachophany of sound which fills the night
we cannot hear each beat
only the master strokes of the conductor
blowing clouds like steam into the night
overpassing families and fogging windows
busy hands seek the stillness of solace
as outside fireflies unite and find release
the deadened light leaves those trapped inside
to buzz against fogged windows and corrugated tin
where restless futures wait for sleep
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