Sleeping out

At the end of the night

There’s no crowded parking lot to walk thru,

No drunks among the drifts of rubbish,

False fun in their shouts,

And ego.

 

No, at the end of the night,

The wind still touches naked skin,

And we abide in witnessing

A place and time not manufactured,

But eternal, the old rock turning

In its endless, silent, diamond-scattered

Emptiness.

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