Late House

Ours is a late house,
Driven by plasma screens.
Ours is a late house,
Caffeine injected dreams.
Ours is a late house,
Motionlessly ‘sleeping’ fiends.
Mine is a late mind,
Streaming the ashes of the day.

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Stare

that precise moment in time fades to a cadence; to nothing

stare at the clouds, through a window, into the dark of night

just for that split second you are lost

a pensive glance into a vacant glare

switching without a care from star to star

and for that split second

nothing matters anymore