It begins quietly—
an undertow beneath glass,
small tremors brushing at the borders,
a half-heard hum,
a splinter of sound.

By dusk, they emerge—
a cast of jester-kings,
brittle crowns catching
the last slant of light.

Faces blur in movement,
voices tilt,
stirring the stillness of quiet corners.

They spill over,
pressing against the mirror’s frail edge,
where shadows convene to listen—
or else drown
in the flood of noise.

Each tongue lifts its own sharp song,
heavy, tugging at what held fast,
breaking it free—
a ripple that rises,
crashes,
curls back.

November dawns,
and the floor sways beneath,
while charlatans dance on cracked ground,
oblivious to the low rumble stirring below.

And we, quiet as candlelight,
witness the lonesome death of civil discourse—
ears pressed to the thin skin of darkness,
hoping for shape,
for something solid to hold.

Nick Allison is a college dropout, a former Army infantryman, and a writer based in Austin, Texas. His poems and essays have appeared in The Shore, Eunoia Review, CounterPunch, The Chaos Section, Kindred Characters Literary Magazine, Spillwords Press, and a few other places. Ever since discovering the Mac shortcut for the em dash way too late in life, he’s been abusing it—constantly—and has no plans to stop.

Also, he secretly enjoys writing his own bio in the third person—probably because it makes him feel a little more important than he actually is.