void

Evenings are funereal. When the sea swallows the sun and its water overflows, and shadows elongate to meet and congregate.

When strangers who wished they were lovers dance and sway, and when lovers who wished they were strangers unlock lips and peel away.

When musicians ignore agogic accents to play freely, and writers become poets; or are they one and the same? Perhaps musicians are poets too?

Such silly questions. Of course they are, but not all poets are writers. 

Unless they agree to come to my funeral. Which will be held on a cold and stormy evening. Because that’s how most stories begin.