a million faces-in the slow dark
Chasing the Stars
Breaking through in the name of novelty, but all that happens is a repetition of repetition of varying depths.
Watching the sky blackened overhead,
The hope that comes with an angry fist
Looking forward to the day by dancing, in rusty repetition.
Legs of trembling legs trying to last longer
The walkers and all their diaries are now discussed as portraits of past forms
It seems that nothing has changed
