Midnight finds you a bit empty,
the lateness of the hour,
you look at the collection
of everything you have,
faded tokens,
empty gestures,
cross words said
oh so fierce,
now ferocity is gone.
So many things in the scrap book of you,
so many things discarded,
forgotten,
nonregarded,
and left.
After midnight,
to be rediscovered.
Listen to these echoes,
you might hear yourself,
find a beat up photograph,
of you in happier times.
Or not,
these shadows don't dance,
and nothing unearths itself here unasked.
