The Night Dwellers

May, 9 in the morning

Sunlight makes its way through all impedes,

Heightening the very speck of detail,

Picturesque, the very habitat we consume.

Lined with workshops providing facilities well-rounded,

Initiating their days, workmen, pull up shutters to avail craftsmanship.

A night pub, neither standing out nor blending in,

Presented between workshops unrelated,

Color brick walls gone bland.

Portraying absent life, yet labelled 'We're Open'.

*ting*

Rings the bell as the entrance is invaded.

Blinds closed, creating an essence making belief that tomorrow never appeared

Flickering lights, the room's only aid for vision

Damping clouds of smoke could be rising from two or more stations, uncertainty

Must I be bold, as dependence on the arising aroma proves otherwise.

Drinks filled and passed around, the customers converse.

Thus far, all my hearing configures muffled sounds

They commence in speech, so very cautiously avoiding the ears of unknown

Unwanted tension seems to have fixed itself among these dwellers

Secrecy levels to dangerous elevation.

I finish my drink, put on my hat

My thoughts revise me of the undone duties pending.

I place the payment on the slab, where my empty glass lies

The foam of which has sunk back, settled

A coin slips, hitting the wooden floor twice before resting

An echo is heard, nothing odd.

But I've gained their attention.

My intrusion in the dark realms of society has intrigued these inhabitants,

Staring me through flesh and bone, as I bend to retrieve the coin.

Stop, despite, such questionable eyes feel latched,

Drowned into my body.

Suffocating, hostility fills my soul as the plague

I rush outward, the beaming light embraces me as its own

Letting out a sigh of relief, I start my day.