I have found you, broken-winged bird,
in a land where the ink never dries,
where eyes never open,
or simply where the sky is always black.

Where nighttime is an adventure and
daylight is a bore,
where we are all smoke dancing in mirrors,
or fragments of sunlight visible only for a fleeting moment.

Where souls are like twisting wrought iron statues,
beautiful, but too melancholy for most,
standing motionless and silent,
but oddly proud and perhaps a bit eager
in the light of the waning sun.

Where we speak with lingering looks
and smoldering eyes
like the embers at the bottom of an ancient fire.

If you can read the language of the hopelessly lost,
then I am delighted to invite you in
for a midnight cup of tea.

But if you feel that you have no business
amongst the wonderstruck,
then I wish you the best as you make your way home alone
in the blackest, coldest, deepest of nights.