In the desolate small hours of Manhattan

Two lovers entwine in rapturous delight

They swell and plead ahead of a skyline of fire

Pledging forever until sweat drowns them to sleep,

 

I am tin under the weight of all their promises

A scourge upon the asphalt, Lucifer’s diseased

Grime under a thousand feet as dawn turns to day

Annihilated, I am all but forgotten and half of a scream;

 

That is the memory I gloss over and let slowly decay

Radioactive aftermath that occasions me half awake

Between realms of fiction I lucid dream a myriad of things

Like the realization that some desires can never be made real,

 

And that there is no Fate that cares to see our love bound

Nor is there Time that puts us together until she runs out

No, perhaps nothing is ever meant to be, I see that

Not in Manhattan, not in the desolate small hours of life.

 

 

All Rights Reserved © October 2016 John J Vinacci

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