Every true poem is a spark, / And aspires to the condition of the original fire / Arising out of emptiness. / It is that same emptiness it wants to reignite / It is that same engendering it wants to be re-engendered by. / Shooting stars. / April’s identical, / Celestial, wordless, burning down. / […]

Well it’s 3 a.m. again, like it always seems to be / Drivin‘ northbound, drivin‘ homeward, drivin‘ wind is drivin‘ me / And it just seems so funny that I always end up here / Walkin‘ outside in the storm while looking way up past the tree-line / It’s been some time (Gregory Alan Isakov)

So come on darling stay with me / Let’s cut through the crowd / Make the most of being lost / In what time we’re allowed (Marah)