I hear them call my name at night,
Those free ones
Who walk along concrete paths outside
Amidst Autumns’ breast.

Light rays cast a sanguine torment
Through these barred windows
As I stand, elbows placed with a slump
Along this familiar sill,
Cold and bare, scratched with fingernail graffiti—
Like so many others and called this place home.

Trouble brought us here,
Surrounded by reflections,
Mirrors of bygone sin;
Shone: a glaring disfigurement of this precarious condition—
Somewhere to walk to would be nice (in quiet peace).

I hear them call my name
When the stars fade into sight,
It’s a moonless cascade
Shared, together, whilst smirking at patience,
Blithe and listless, but
Somehow not as bleak as before
From the inside-out.

Staring across the courtyard,
I hear them call my name
From the other side of that fountain out there;
Diaspora for the Just, beckoning
Pollination of finite chances, for
I’ll brandish Desire and become infected, nay
Invested in a swarming caress.