In the woods
listening
to the soft sounds
as even the hunters
all sink into sleep

Out on the street
waiting
for the late stragglers
for your pocket is empty
promises to keep

Huddled in trenches
praying
for the night angels
to grant you evasion
when onward you creep

In a hotel room
accepting
of form and of function
that from your hand tells you
no more need to weep

Log in or registerto write something here or to contact authors.