Midnight

and the greasy orange street lamps shine down,

their bright tangerine light glistening on the dusty pavement,

the starlight suffocating under the weight of the city:

its uncountable lights and the tainting of the moon.

It never sleeps.

The city never sleeps.

I never sleep,

treading the board of this concrete stage.

And so we ramble on, desultory Keplers

(who defined the universe at the expense of its glory

who killed the music of the spheres

for these passionless, clockwork ellipses)

listening to the heartbeat of the nation

as it marches on beneath our feet.

Midnight

in the city of dejected royalty

and the wind, sovereign now,

whips the broken trees back and forth,

branches falling onto the sloppy, snow-carpeted ground,

the starlight suffocating under the death of the city:

its last, slow, choking gasps.

Still it lingers.

My city lingers.

I linger,

living and reliving, grasping and falling.

And so we ramble on, desultory believers

(slow to exorcise our beautiful demons)

listening to the arrhythmic, asthmatic breathing of the city

as it breaks beneath our feet.

I am conscious (are you?) of their sultry whispers:

"Come home, come fade with me."

It must be a trick of the light, a trick of this midnight,

a deus ex machination.

They are beautiful demons

but demons all the same.