at 4 am,
the world's asleep.
with only the sound of the flickering street lights,
the crickets that chirp at night,
and the occasional sound of tires rolling,
across the highway,
to serve as a reminder that dead silence does not exist.
the sound of the heavy sighs of truck drivers,
crossing miles upon miles of lonely roads,
the smell of the disgusting, overpriced coffee of tired business leaders,
bought the minute they get off their red eye flight.
nothing can change,
the beauty that's there and remains;
at 4 am,
the world's a beautiful sight.
it's beautiful until you can't wake up the next morning...
i'm falling in, and out, and in, and out,
my mind reaches:
slowly uncurls a single finger
pinkish joints blossom
the slightest graze of fingernail
and what i think is real bursts into a million,
spinning globules sent
skittering down a marble hall,
who knows how long?
but sometimes there are no marbles--
there are only shooting stars
masses of hazy, gaseous yellow
pixels, flickering and glitchering
in the corners of my eyes, hover
at my brow, drop at my feet ah...
a sadness devoid of
— The End —