London Poem: Day 139

3 January

Just let go,
We can find ourselves
Dying in the quiet light
Before the sun tells us no.
It is by night
That the world closes in,
Arresting possibility,
To conceal the shape
Of our wishful delight.
The stars,
Near-burning, but removed,
Cause the world to appear
Impossible and far.
Our night sleeps frozen;
One shudder for you
And another for me,
Our rest is hindered by
What we feel is destined:
That life will bend for us,
To collect happiness in bunches
In the rapid transit to dust.

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In flux

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