24 September 2014

Swirling in a glass
taking odds on being drunk
or spilled
or poured back.

Sparking the flint
wanting to be held in that perfect moment
before everything burns.

Lingering over the cinders
asking the vanishing glow
to come back.

Lying across the tracks
waiting for resolve or regret
or a train
to show.

I guess they don't
call it The Witching Hour
for nothing.