a thousand smiles pour out of
empty faces
and there’s this whimsical bird
that never takes flight
it flaps pointlessly
just as an avalanching destiny
blunders downwards
burying lives in its snow

the night is for watchmen
their eyes clawed open by starry sights
the day is for fools
their eyes caught squinting at burning skies

and while the cricket chirps with laughter
the sun drowns the masses
with the bustle of their mundane lives
their very own productivity
their very own personal death;
slow and deliberate
neatly wiping its feet before entering
every home

listen closely to the night
the sky is bleeding stillness
as if it were a gentle rain
feeding flowers of truth
until they blossom
bold enough
to make it through the dawn
holding on to night

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