In that street,
The lamps have dimmed,
The shadows, twist in themselves,
Contort into insomniac magpies
Hurtling towards darts of shiny specks;
Broken beams illuminating
The Shadow People
Made of tattered dreams and scarred self-esteem.

Their trinkets try to wrap hastily,
But sobs don’t rhyme
With the jingle-jangle of broken bangles
Neither do colognes mask
The salt of unspoken seas.
Barters made under neon lights
In an unlikely backdrop of
Unsteady harmonica tunes.

To the shattering of bottles,
Emptied in the hope of vanquishing demons;
Who knew they were knotted electric cables
In disguise?
Dumpsters overflowing
Reeking of selfsame horrors
As unspoken minds
Have let their thoughts rot –
Putrid carcasses.

And the first rays
Wipes all evidence without a trace;
A stage stripped
Of all realities.

30 November 2016


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