By Neil Beynon
Words hide in the witching hour.
Stars gone far away.
Footsteps echo on empty streets
To locked gates of a never-day.
Trains roar against the dawn
As the jukebox plays 3AM.
The glass is full of yellow-brick road.
The bone moon hides its cards.
Wishes jump at the walls of the well,
Trapped between the fire and the black.
A dragon in the dark,
Sitting upon the silence.