Distant armies
Outside, the neon and the rain;
in here, the heat
that like soft prayer
rises from the radiator,
slowly moves the curtains.
Distant armies march.
Night’s colours rise again,
to break upon some waiting shore.
There’s dying and soft laughter -
desperate prayers.
We are born again and die again
and we become our nights,
become our stories;
breaking and forever falling,
while the cello plays.