Wither.
When in the mountains, I think of how this all used to be liquid Earth. Years after-wards, this is the mass we, ourselves, have created. To no avail does this great dead sea grate upon me.
And I wonder how each tourist survives, when the city, with its vagrant lights,
invades their tousled beds and dreamless sleep.
Do they draw the curtains closed, hoping to trap their solitude or do they keep vigil by the window, like I do, lull their restlessness by separating the city's deadening glow from the night and imagining the black sky as a blanket
that keeps them company.
Wither.
That is all that comes to mind.
-K
And I wonder how each tourist survives, when the city, with its vagrant lights,
invades their tousled beds and dreamless sleep.
Do they draw the curtains closed, hoping to trap their solitude or do they keep vigil by the window, like I do, lull their restlessness by separating the city's deadening glow from the night and imagining the black sky as a blanket
that keeps them company.
Wither.
That is all that comes to mind.
-K