It couldn\'t have been more than
A passing flicker of ventilation,
Highlighted in the air by a streetlamp -
Becoming adjusted to the observation
Of packaged ink in a metal box
And weeds coming through the asphalt,
With fumes on the verge of theft -
Leaving all but discomfort intact.
It might have been, that every sleeping thing
Lay quiet, out of respect for time,
Its many burdens, or influential pull -
That they all lay still, out of touch.
Perhaps it was, a fleeting quip on the night
Ridden by words too faint to notice,
Or a delusion planted by age\'s resplendence
That sprouted bulbs in a slumbered city,
That, somehow, a flat bench became a lighthouse
And as it just so happened, I was resting there,
In situational coincidence, guiding other lights
While I, myself, was lost.