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Late night, the air is heavy and still,
Lit by pools of orange that grow with the darkness.
There is no sound:
The cicadas are hibernating in the face of cold,
The furry creatures are asleep,
The crickets silence in fear as I move past.
The humans are gone.
Where are they now,
The belligerent, the cheery, the sorrowing,
The players on the world's stage?
The stars know all but will never tell,
Laughing twinkling from the safety of their universal bed.
Their blanket of sky offers only a flat interpretation of
Infinite distance.
It happens.
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October 8, 2011
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