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The Lights at Night


The lights at night tell a story

often faded in random glory

and lingering in layers

stories abound

in the boundless flickers

of flickering lights

beyond the spindles

of splintering limbs

slow waving hemlocks

and hickory bends barren branches

bare a story to tell

stories rolling through fields

and farms wrapped in the weave

of wire and aging wooden post

yet amidst the ire of desolation

a beacon bellows beyond

the small frame walls

a distant island

of life and the bending of light

pandering through wind-blown panes

pondering the shadows of night

a never-ending peace

called home

The lights at night tell a story

as slow as slowly strolling

along suburban streets

beneath the glow and glare

of long lingering lamps

hovering like the arms

of life leading weary wanderers

home in homes of long rows

hidden in hedges

where the house cat hides

and the scents of summer rain

and supper simmering

on a dozen or more

separate stoves

and the chatter inside chambers

each their own

but all so very much

the same

light glows and collectively grows

as each window glares

immune from the outside stares

strangers called neighbors

in the neighborhoods we share

so oft ignited

yet seldom invited

inside the lives

and layers of walls

where each light

of faint and faintly sullen drape

glares the end

of ending a day

as each light looms

illuminating another story

The lights at night

burn fast and furious

bursting through the fury

of city streets

churned in churning chaos

echoes unending light bending

nary time to stare

nor compare beyond

the unseen starry gaze

a tall tale of urban fare

and office lights at night

would not dare

awake the stress

of daylight hours in despair

undressed of any care

while white collar workers

slumber at peace and peaceful still

the homeless hunker

in humble creases

beneath bridges

the light bends

a story worthy to tell

yet remains hidden

trapped in pride’s swell

a thousand lights

times thousands more

resound as one glaring store

of a storehouse

where nothing is stored

but where time is borrowed

from time

and the lights at night

tell the story

grander still

The lights at night

tell a story

soft as a somber glow

of moonlit snow

that glistens in crystal rows

of random trees

lined and layers deep

through the forest and beyond

the realm of wilderness

wild and remote

covered stumps

and acorns stashed

like cash

‘neath hemlock hew

and a moment when

the swirling winds

bend the trunks

and towering tops of trees

twists sullen and serene

suddenly calm

frozen in endless time

the hours slowly elapse

as slower the sands

pass through freezing

narrow glass

but would a bird

awaken in the shaken limbs

only to linger in the chill

of a cloudless desolate night

where light cast shadows

in deeper layers

of dark

where there are no lights

but a story unfolds still

where the whisper of wings

tells all

and nothing remains

to tell

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