Singular door-mouse scuttles in hedgerows, euphoric and chasing nothing
The greying clouds overhead loom low in the evening haze,
and vast orange illuminations in the west are a cold blanket desiring human warmth
Myriad ebon patterns in a southerly direction, ridiculous in their grandeur
She wanted a classic romanticism, not the hand sanitizer before bed routine
He missed the way she lay across his throat, choking in the dead of night
The stoic pool in the back yard was lonely again, when the blackbirds took leave

What day is this, when the apples no longer grow and love lives in another house?

Disregarded and rusted, the deodorant can chimes discordantly along some gravel drive
and a plastic bag is caught on an updraft, emulating some movie or art piece, pretentious in its nature
and whole trees stand naked, swaying in phantom dancehalls to some unfathomable songstress
Only the lonely are walking tonight and he is there, with them... alone
She stands in doorways recounting past dreams and wishing for wishes to be real
The peach coloured blinds are closed and sirens are dead in this, the saddest of nights

What hands are these, that type such things, and why tonight do I see these images in frosty car windows and street lamps flickering?

Still the door-mouse scurries and finds but a single berry, the last thought of seasons past
- the sun is dead, and to that end the moon does wryly nod
Never listen to those voices on ethereal winds for they tell so many lies
and in autumnal twilight a beacon is present but only in distant hills, when the wind catches her breath

The nicotine daybreak comes later each day and the nights are a drag
Burning embers of the cigarette summertime fade each passing second
- conforming to some ambiguous cosmic clock, of which we ignore daily
A steady pulse of whistling nostalgia to guide him to sleep
Hoping to dream, always hoping to dream

There's a mantra carved into a tree behind the old music department at the local school
On it reads a message to every solitudinarian with looming sadness on his head
She found these words carved when the bark was damp and bare
Pursing her lips as she read them aloud, her words vanishing into the crisp evening air
Laying her head in seasoned leaves and forcing her hand to a dull night sky
She sang a song of past lovers, and softly in the breeze, she began to cry