4am

4am greases
It’s sombre
Hostility,

Broken crows
Dance crooked,

Flies rest,
Litter waltzes,

Arrhythmic whispers
Cruise in on the breeze

And the dew licks
Its mumbles of intrigue.

A scarred old bus shelter,
Weathered and pissed,

A place to
Carelessly wither,

Leans in on
Invisible guests,
Slightly bowed to the kerb,

A deviated strip light
Flickering excuses,

A quiver of disaffected
Moths and foxes lost,

Gravel hushing,

A barren street name
And then nothing

But a bent, collapsed
Voice faintly groaning,

Which way is wrong?

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