There will be no guide for what what will be the longest nights there are to be had
No perception but invention
Of to which majestic heights the helpless hours hold you
Or to whatever depths they drag
Moving always without sight
Caught like rustling plastic bags in the limbs of trees that line your street
Between impulses to ignite
And the risk attached to every spark of light
Error
Silence
Portraits perfect in design
Hanging flawless, unobstructed on the insides of the lids of your eyes
Last as long as any other lie in the presence of a guiding light
In the arms of divided branches
Imperfection radiates
Marching over silence in sheets of sparks
No perception but invention
Of to which majestic heights the helpless hours hold you
Or to whatever depths they drag
Moving always without sight
Caught like rustling plastic bags in the limbs of trees that line your street
Between impulses to ignite
And the risk attached to every spark of light
Silence
Hanging flawless, unobstructed on the insides of the lids of your eyes
Last as long as any other lie in the presence of a guiding light
Imperfection radiates
Marching over silence in sheets of sparks
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