(no subject)

Night has moods we know it in, and these
As seldom undisturb as quite displease.

Times it seems it's made to be peeled back,
Flying from all star-tips, flames and eyes.
Hovers others, curling to attack
Lone lit windows lost like fireflies.

Limit of what any known can know,
Both what known is carved from and the knife.
Sans light's daubings even the hue of snow.
Under the skin the color even of life.

Wall of cardbacks hiding what might be,
Simple where we unforget we're flux,
Sight we need to dream to even see,
Giver of our first and final fucks.

Action taken once to rustle rumor,
Room enough to bury every humor.