Wait and walk hollow in hollows Above the earth Army green, army green, The silent army of silent trees Aside desolate roads Hear the empty voice that goes: “I’m the one that follows you home”
Sit and talk hollow in hollows Inside the world Lily white, lily white, Funeral flowers **** the pets at night In unopened windows Hear the empty voice that goes “I’m the feeling that keeps the doors closed”
The Village was nearly swallowed by darkness, Until I stumbled upon a fresh fluorescent light, Emitting an eerie glow out of a subtle all-night diner. Suddenly, eyeballs projected a noir-style movie. This unique heaven lit a cemented pathway, Which led toward nowhere but American desolation. Exploration of blank stores was not an option; A disconnected joint across the open street was obvious. The cornered beacon called to me as if dreams lived, Though the seamless wedge of glass deflected observation, Onto the viewer I represented, isolated from the anonymous. Lungs were not interested in Phillies, only graveyard shift. The scene held four strangers shut in spacious congregation. The figures filled in the white void with physical presence, While each owl was remotely lost in their own thoughts. Was it the tragedy that occurred at Pearl Harbor, Possibly the hopelessness World War II offered? Could it have been the disappearance of happy innocence in ’42? Hopper alone can probably discover a whole to the loss of words. Somehow the constructed simplicity was overwhelming: When late night minds meet morosity yet still produces beauty. Subjected into one, the loneliness of a large city can exist too.