Everything in its Place and Burning

I walk the flatline of the midnight tide
Looping into scapes of lamiscate
Places with faces/Imprinted/...Indented in cemented
Lessons of impressions/I cannot escape

Something infernal exists amongst the houses
Where folks escape the fiendish grin of the wild wind
The quiet/The silent/structured in salience
 
And sporadic sounds

*   *   *

of violence and/or turbulence,
this place/taking its place/in the sands of clock hands
snapped savagely/in shapes of
swan necks/swirled in visions of

suicide/homicide
on the grandest scale
in profusions
of breakneck revolutions

occulted into midnight tides which unconsciously hide in plain sight

*   *   *

Everything sent to urns because everything burns