Where the circle ends

Mountain ranges
Morning red bathed ridges
Stab up at the trembling blue horizon
Grey slides lazily off rooftops
Lands on the Incandescnent ground and dies
A flock of little men touch down on the thin surface of the porchlight
dawns footsoldiers return
To match twilight across our faces
Skylights ignite and explode
Scattering shards of april around the room
No one even lives here
We're too busy crashing our cars every morning at the same house
Paving the same roads
Unwilling to walk them
And even when we extend ourselves, its only to be included
In a moment that stands still
so often we don't struggle to improve conditions
We struggle for the right to say "we improve conditions"
And so often we form communities
Only to use them as exclusionary devices
we forget that somewhere peope are calling out for teachers
and no one is answering
Somwhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose
against the door
And somewhere these people are keeping records
And writing a book
For now we can call it "The Book About the Basic Flaw"
Or "The Book About the Letter "A"
Or "Any Title That a Book About a Man That No One Cares About Might Have"
And as we turn the pages we call out the sounds
of a vanishing alphabet
Standing here waiting

~A song by Thursday