A thunderstorm thrashes heartily against us. Blinded by the darkness save the respite of tile fluorescence, the unknown world outside these tubular metal walls and unseen storm that grumbles underfoot is sated and quieted, it seems, by mosaic symmetricality and strips of white lights and steel columns painted over.
There seems to be life between the storms that pass, between the patches of night and rotten dreams. But if you look close enough, as if awaking from a dream, there’s a world between the string of days. Texture towards the night.
Nary a world oft seen,
That lies right in between
The waking moments
And restless sighs,
The us that does release,
That looking in those eyes
Locks the torrents in surmise,
And quakes the lost within demise,
Of fear and trepidation — flight
Sans mediation,
And love — repudiation.
Just me.
At night.
Michael Vitaly Sazonov 