They came at night, they strode gently down the path and rinsed their hands on the gander of our foresight. Calmly, sweetly, briskly, move in with the dark and death and out to walkways ploughed by furrows for pleasure. Stars aligned and spoke in whispers “surely everything in its proper place” the hush of breathing, the moon reversed, savage spectacles built on gut instinct, mirrors over the sky, reflections teaching all the wrong verbs and verses, aloof and overpowering, reminders of paths and walkways trodded on so tragically. Tuesday of the night with strangers, souls stretching out in solidarity, remorse waking to decisions and regrets, days longing for a reason as weeks begging for their seasons to come home. Maybe everything is dreamt this way, maybe culture bled for liberties in sanctuary, cruel ways in which life breaks light like smaller stars rocketing into shooting stars and collapsing for pressure, wallowing to preserve, swallowing the vicious and the vigour, minds bland as chalk and chasing, random voices living out tomorrow’s heroes passion pacing, crowds of chaos elegantly drift into midweek hoping, behind them Tuesdays stayed for strangers, wild to the world with life’s gift left unwoven.