what was there
a mote
something intangible
an open hand
a fucking freight train
what flew in
a span
an awesome reach
and dropped its workings on the world
like a seer
like a soothsayer
wind in its wake
damage in its half life
how does the night
this night
get the latest
how do the walkers know the way
where will they end up tonight
when will the pages run out
the story reach an ending
perhaps without glory
perhaps in a quiet room
on an empty bed
with weathered skin
and empty hands
and who will stand in the gardens
reap the fruits
of someone elses labor
and tear a hole in the earth
to jump right in
and share it all
to any who will listen
these things come to me
and then pass
only to come again
on this night
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