‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Empty Forest
the flight must have been short, just out of his nest. the nighthawk did not rest by the fire, ice dripping off his feathers. meanwhile, thousands march, trains go nowhere, a wind blows, yet a stillness remains. it sits in the grasp of a few, every stream dictated, every drop of dew determined. yet fearless should you remain, look into the dying of the light and light another match, for giving up, there may not remain even the memory of warmth.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀    𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚖 𝚏𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚔𝚊𝚢.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀   
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛-𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍. 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖? 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀   
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢. 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎. 𝚠𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚙 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚜. 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚜; 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎. 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚒 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐 𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚒 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚟𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕, 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚎, 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢.