a million faces-in the slow dark

Chasing the Stars

Breaking through in the name of novelty, but all that happens is a repetition of repetition of varying depths.

Watching the sky blackened overhead,

The hope that comes with an angry fist

Looking forward to the day by dancing, in rusty repetition.

Legs of trembling legs trying to last longer

The walkers and all their diaries are now discussed as portraits of past forms

It seems that nothing has changed