Rush hour has little to say
Children do not talk in the street
The purple dusk that seems
To throw itself over in the afternoon
Like the shadowy spoiler of fun
That crept up by the end of summer
Changing clothes I found
A shirt from a luckier season
And breathed the fibres, the comfort
Of pieces of history, from another era
How good are our distractions
At eating up time? When stuck
In personalised cells time becomes
An endless canvas where the
Tiniest grain of essence can be counted by
Outside, the intersection is cold
Open skies filled only with
Ancient starlight, and bewildered
Beasts wondering where we are.
@nepion_boreas17
