Still Life

The night is unmistakably
pedantic
The stars are all mediocre
at best
The trees are a cage
containing lifeforms extinct
Houses of people
having been born here
once before
All this land and more
habitually platonic
staring back at itself
The facade of neon glow
strengthened by
innumerable voices

Untitled

The weather is full of traitors
who attempt to give us purity
in the way of news.
Solemnly the night crawls.
Not a sound
because the emptiness is
so fulfilling.
There is pressure against the stars
to hold up the sky.
I look out the window
- a prism filtering time.
No one believes
in mysteries anymore.
I hold the world inside my pocket
written in verse
which no one will see.