At Platform Two

Only noise held within
Silent steel coffin slides in
from thin mist
that weaves its wisps
through thistles that bristle the cliffs

A whistle insists that assistants persist
to prowl the precipice
With their recipes for finite necessities
progressing t’wards midnight
Where a cold. empty saddle
battles with insights of the blessedless

Turning the heel, they reel right back
to see nothing less than the blackest of nights
and suffocating sulphur
of regressive vessels of character
that wrestle with claret to classify clarity’s glow
and decide to freeze or to further the flow

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