These are days of fire in the hills
When the crowded cafeteria's ceiling feels like
The last days of the world
Rushing down upon your head.

These are nights when the harvest moon
-White as death-
Shines over leafless trees
That look like cracks in marble
While a solitary brown moth
wanders through their branches.

These are days when that
New black asphalt before your house
Seems to stretch on forever
Under a chilly and cloudless

These are nights when you walk to the park
To write in solitude
But end up gripping the icy
Metal chain of the swingset
Until you walk home to sleep.
These are days that feel like
The first pages of a fantasy tale
Being read aloud
To children on a rainy day.

These are days of fire in the hills.

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