Night Riots.

Cold night. Darkened.
Crescent moon tears the sky.

A million sparks, a canvas.
A story stretched from the beginning to the end of time.

A faint sound carries on the wind.
Escaping, the belief of hours turning into minutes.

If we stay, lay awake.
Keep the minutes, we can't.
It doesn't help, but couldn't we dream they remain?

The fire burns, in this cool winter breeze.
Warm, reckless, untamed.

Stay a minute.

Reviews

[keith]

you touch on many senses ...

feel ... 'Cold night. Darkened.'
sight ... 'A million sparks, a canvas.'
sound ... 'A faint sound carries on the wind.'
wish ... ' but couldn't we dream they remain?'
command ... 'Stay a minute.'
what else is there? nice flow, good thoughts to paper