Original article posted by Minty:

It’s that time…
In the wide lidded night when sleep
In all its hopes fall down
So quickly, anti-climax of a spent slug
That falls smoking and eaten,
Like wasp husks, or locust skins

And the moon (though it is a frail symbol for such things)
Hangs limp as a sickle red and terrible
Falling into the dust, the air born grime
Of living people

And speaking of…those oxygen sacks,
I am standing not so awed as awake
Dreaming, and walking
Never so still as that copper crescent.

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