the moon hangs low
breathing sleeplessness across the city
endless smokestacks blur the air
grey fills the sky, soft and slow
the midnight oil burns on
fumes choking assembly lines
grubby fingers get caught in gears
pulverized by steel, all but gone
the wineglasses clink,
celebrating good business and money
they're joyous for the night
ignoring the debt in which they'll sink
the moon fades as the night flees
the skyline made of liquid gold
memories of the night faint
carried away by the city's breeze
YOU ARE READING
The Witching Hour
Poetrypoetry about the wicked and the witchy || featured by WP Poetry on Oddities Unknown || #183 in poem (11/3/18)
