Deep pocket penguins take on the night.
Two little stars, always liked a good fight.
How did this ever happen?

Sunday shadows, stand out on the street.
Tiptoes walking right between four feet.
Like none of it ever happened.

‘Wind will wind down and blow us away
To where we wind up at the end of the day.’
‘What is about to happen?’

Two torn out pages feast on a floor.
Thoughts finally move when they open the door.
Everything starts to happen.

Outside, they sit, they think on the box.
Finding the moments they found and then lost.
Black and white blurs barrel down the road
To pick fights with demons
They think that they know.

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