At Twilight, the screaming halts.
We point the finger and denounce our faults.
He stands silences with a hole inside his heart,
For he watched this city go up in flames and fall apart.
He tried to put out the fire for hours- as he should...
But he used a can of gasoline: The only thing he could.
We're making up for the old time we lost,
Retracing our steps to the bridges we once crossed.
We wonder these city streets like lost cats,
Trying our hand at love and preying upon rats.
Like us, the sunlight here is artificial,
Manufactured and stamped by our officials.
It sinks below the horizon and called to the dead,
As Twilight approaches and words go unsaid.
YOU ARE READING
Adjectives
PoetryThis is 90% of the poems I have written from the last couple years up to now. I figured since I'm starting here again, I'll just put them into one collection. New works will be published separately. Warning: Some of this is really depressing. P.S...
