Neons hid them.
Behind its glow.
Those that can't shine,
Or lost their shine.
It's the best time,
It's the worst time.
A tinker would not ring in a bag of coils.
Cigarette smoke in the wind like a feather pillow with a pluck.
White feathers in their perfect shape,
meant to be instruments to soar through the sky.
Bleeds out.
To lit the smallest neon of this city.
It's the best city
in the world,
in the country,
in your damn dream.
In your bloody fiction.
in your bullshit ads.
in your fucking lies.
Wake me up
Till I can see the faces behind the neon.
When the figures behind the mirror turn.
Or when the neons died out.
Either way.
I suppose I'll have a little fun before sleep.
Just a little,
Just for a little while.
Keep your eyes sharp kiddo,
your mind clear,
your head high.
Those are your permit of existing.
YOU ARE READING
It's three in the morning.
PoetryA small collection of poems which I write when I could not sleep. Or (mostly) of my personal experiences.
