Dark city

Lance Sheridan

Smell of night, mumble-pawed, teary and sorry
Drifting into a cupboard of chairs, food, dishes;
Patrons unloosing their jaws for a meal,
Mouth after mouth to a purpose;
In-between a smile, etherizing their square white heads.

A curtain of neon-lights exhausting the dark,
Hunting the shadows while quietly humming;
A colorful veil that molds to its face,
Its mind is searching, the moon is no door.
The noble gases bury it like a wounded knee.

At the dead end, the pushers bonging on their white sticks,
Tremulous death at the end of the line for a user;
Their lives are snapped out of breath like a dead eyelid.
Black veils on a family smell so sick;
Here they come in their hysterical hearses.

The night will not be got rid of, it closes the old day chambers
And the gullible sun-heads shaking hands with the long horizon;
It is dark…

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