Somewhere into the night,
Walking becomes wandering.
The watchful eyes of lights, yellow and warm,
Extend a hand
and you shake a stroke of Gogh’s.
Legs weave in and out of streets;
Thought leaves through the narrative of others trying to find its own;
The city goes to bed with a doubting heart.
I walk a tightrope across your webbed wings,
Cling on as it breaks.
Swinging through a jungle now, am I free?
The hedges of my mental maze need trimming.
You drift in again, my dragonfly.
I sit with you awhile.
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