We burned down the shelter
in our sleep.
Aimed torches at the night,
arms raised to the sky,
we tested each dark window.
Now, sleepwalking bodies clear
a path back to ashes
made of wax and trees
only the moon sees.
From this bridge we
call to the quiet
where ghosts play music to
passers by.
We’re all riding toward something
on trains that move us backward,
but even in flames we find
awake people sleeping.
Even after all this burning
people still seem to be looking
for stars and galaxies and planets
to blame for their existence.
Some stories get written in the dark
and burn just like we planned.
Even if we didn't plan it.
