by shaun lawton
the world is a maelstrom
of interleavened alleyways
strewn against a backdrop
with everchanging shadowplays
for dead curled poplar leaves
skidding toward a stop upon
the icy sidewalks we navigate
upon our evening walk one winter
when whispers offer cold solutions
that only come creeping into
our mind some hours later
when we must at last succumb
to the rule of thumb outlined
underneath the bedsheets our
visage in a shroud enshrined
breathing in and out so slow
to hardly even notice the part
we play every single sudden night
this resurrection each new dawn
a birthright to which we belong
and find ourselves to sing along
