As we speak, these words go
unsaid, unread.
Words considered good remain in
darkness.
All words folded way stay out of
sight.
Out of sight, out of mind in the
closed night.
Like a suburb whose name is
forgotten.
A suburb out there in another
city.
Like a star named after a dead
writer.
A writer who knew all the moods
of night.
These words and words like them
exist unseen.
Words invented for the personal
voice.
Like syllables might explain
creation.
Like chronos frames the frame of
November.
These words, made in hope to
share the darkness,
Night envelopes.
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