"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
We soundless souls who touch at dusk,
to drown in grey goose seas.
Marching to the mindless beat,
that in its nature frees.
A trope of crawlers through the darkness,
all shining gold on black.
Honey bees to the nectar pot,
we move in a bass line pack.
You court the night’s dark children,
Giselle’s who dance through dawn.
You’ll wake up in the morning though and think of us with scorn.
We’ve moved away from you, you see,
and trickled from the light.
You’ll never see us in the day
but seek us out at night.
This strobing moth that’s caught your eye
dear boy, there’s packs of them.
we migrate around the lamp lit roads –
In search of our Jerusalem.