they dot the sky like freckles.
they
linger
they are our first recordings.
who am i to have never
struck a bargain with our masters
cushioned by the solitude
the total isolation in the warmth
of a humid, scarred field?
who am i to leave them?
staring uselessly at the everything.
the fields where bodies lay
silent and alone, making quiet contracts
by the promise of a comet’s trail…
now as empty as cobwebbed rooms,
door ajar in the final dark?
we are in towers now
and we are in great winds outside,
changing favours like handshakes,
the empires fall, and
all we have ever wanted
is to get closer to the light.
