Josh Woodward Soft Orange Glow
the moon is beating on this town on the silent streets and all around its crescent's growing larger every time i close my eyes
the burning lamplights on main street on this deserted tuesday night are calling for a sign of life to consume their fire
as the girl sits alone on a bench she's waiting for a ride or a moment of clarity or perhaps she is not waiting for anything at all and she's content to watch the streetlights and the moon... on the concrete
she's been there for as long as i've seen, maybe longer, maybe she's always been there as a living statue she commerates a saint who had fallen some years past and she has drifted from the spotlight and is nothing more than a shadow of a shadow
and her face, it is carved with a purpose nobody knows this destiny, not even this girl who sits alone on her bench under the moon and the streetlights and stares at something in the distance, motionless
even the wind is asleep at this hour the clouds are laying low on the horizon upon pillows of more clouds and the soft orange glow of the sleeping sky casts down on the sleeping earth
and she will rise when the morning sun consumes the fog and the soft orange glow becomes the fallen saint hidden by the shadow of a shadow burnt by the spotlight invisible gone
