Night's Habits

Night never rushes,
but idly breathes
through eulogies,
in cloud or in stars
recollections of the departed
douse flickering boredom
with the ability to remain still.

In the absence of light
all that remains
are shadows of the faces
of those who took themselves
out of the future,
to forever change
the context of their memory.

Their last moments are engraved
onto the stone of things
which I cannot understand,
and each weigh as much
as the trains which brought their end,
where the tears of the witnessing passengers cooled
as they ran their tracks downward.

Night never rushes,
but they rushed through it–
not towards daylight
but a closer fire,
singeing nostrils and
systematically consuming

combustable flesh in its flames.

Written early November, about where the mind goes when awake at night and trying to process recent deaths of friends.

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