Lily: The Nighttime Flower


Fleeting conversations fling themselves upon unwilling ears,
Always seeming to hear what is never to be desired.
The day dies, and the night whispers to the streets.
The fog perches itself on a park bench near the pond,
Christened in black as a leaf falls and plunders into saturation.
The waves come to lap at the feet of the downtrodden weeper;
Tears meander down her iron-scathed cheeks, bright red and warm.
Behind her, the whispers begin to groan,
Bubbling under a tide of defeat.
The wind shrieks fault in her eardrums,
Streetlights cry tyranny...
Abandoning the heart left beating on the sidewalk,
The blood drips down into storm drains
Mixing with a premiere serum of decrepit stench.
Night crowds in under the crescendo of bellowing cacophony,
Puffing its frost-lined breath, watching the plumes
Of icy smoke float upwards to a darkened sky.
The sirens wail with the uprising of light in the East.
Retreating night crawls, injured and wounded...
The girl looks up and smiles.

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