I cannot stop
the silent walk of
stars
across my forehead
nor see anymore
the faces
under
the smoky ceiling
of the Purple Bar.
Island of strange
creatures
locked in clonic dance:
anthem of dust souls
seeking
their oblivion
on the rust-colored floors of night.
And
remorse
like some brooding shadow
clocks the moments
in
misspent ecstasy
and scurries on my thoughts:
postscripts to
the glass-filled reflections
of some disjointed world
alien to
me.
And as these
beating quick minutes
flee swiftly to their
hour,
I become stilled
by the approach
of a terrifying
knowledge
of streets
gleaming white
in the dawn.