What if?
War is like a fire in the midst of an unsuspecting neighborhood,
All is peaceful until the match strikes and sets lives ablaze.
The ashes that we created to look like snow
blanket the ground and cover any trace of the aftermath
If only the bullets we have shot could be unshot
The words we've said unspoken
And the silent tears finally be heard.
Then the fires we have created could be extinguished.
Only until then will we be able to look in the mirror; satisfied
With the reflection staring back at us.
Midnight-Twenty
I don't recall specifics. It's more a philosophy of empty space,
a place you once were.
Your absence is a lack that my mind can't unwrap itself from. It notices you gone
and wonders why.
No, it does not think so clearly -- it is a question of physics, a matter of gravity.
I am pulled to where we once were.
Forget moth to flame, this is earth to sun, moon calling to the tide, "Rise," and so it complies,
a matter of law,
of habit.
The Clock struck Midnight, and Midnight struck back. The two danced across the dark library in lockstep, evenly matched, knocking books from their shelves and ink from their wells with little regard for the significant mess the Librarian would have to clean up in the morning. Assassins so rarely thought of such things. They were more often concerned with elaborate murders and making sure their face masks were properly in place and their very unique and identifiable scars and tattoos were properly covered.
"You're a terrible assassin," The Clock goaded, leaping from an armchair onto Midnight's back.
"At least my assassin name isn't 'The Clock,'" Midnight retorted, flinging the other assassin from his back before carefully adjusting his cape.
The Clock stood, looking dizzy. "Yes, because 'Midnight' is so original."
The Librarian watched from the check-out desk, rolling her eyes. "More assassinating, less chatting, please."
New recruits were the worst.