Outside flicking burning matches
onto silent streets, the dying smoke
rises skyward toward vacant dusk,
the starless sky. Keeping company
with the dead is easy, having said
what they’ve already said, they
never talk back, they just listen.
When words are forced and used
for the sake of using, all meaning
is forever lost and becomes useless.
Circumstantial ramblings such as
these provide a fogged window into
a mind plagued by terror, sorrow,
and a complicated but happy life.
Walking along these streets there
is a quiet that only exists on the
cold concrete of hometowns, or
so you convince yourself because
it’s easier to believe you have
something special when you refuse
the possibilities of anything better.
The lone streetlight, struggling to
come alive, flickers on and off.
And like a wounded season that
had no chance—autumn is dead.
