We are nighthawks,
reaching across our lonely oceans
of Ones and Zeroes
to friends whose faces are unfamiliar;
whose names we will never pronounce.
We are not insomniacs.
Instead, we are a watchmen—
keepers of a sacred flame of wakefulness—
the world ends when the last poet turns out her light
and dreams the mundane dreams of the sleeping.
We are eternal delirium.
We are madness in the blood.
We are vampires at the feast who find that, in the feasting,
we are the ones drained.
We are the scavengers. We are the scavenged.
We are the skeptics and the believers.
We are our own stories, and their storytellers.
Circling, like birds.
across the midnight dark of Ones and Zeros,
to a heart that perhaps we’ll build a roost in.
We are nighthawks.