Looking Down The Hollow Gun Barrel.

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The stoplights start blinking at 11pm.
Their function ceases control
And provides the options of yielding
Or
Advancing with strobes of yellow and red.

In the hospitality industry
11pm
Is known as quiet time.

This desolation of sound
Was adopted
For the naked blacktops and roads.

However,
There’s a comfort met
When shadow embraces darkness.

When a streetlight hums amber
And trails my shoulders and spine,
While I walk towards my car
Watch as my reflection escapes into a dingy solitude,
As my shadow advances with each step.
My midnight eyes close
Behind the blinking remembrance
Of nostalgic confab with invisible beasts.

In the sunlight
Everything is censored
To hide the known.

In the darkness
We control the censorship.

Sometimes
It’s hard to embrace control
In the sunlight. As our shadows
Bow to insects and smell grass
As if the blades were rose petals.

So,
I tend to close my eyes and daydream.
I imagine nothing but midnight.
There I keep the beasts,
Until the church bells knell
And the desolation of sound
Is killed by God.

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