there is a
quiet, ominous
peace:
the spark - snap, an enigma - between
smooth dark night, one of
empty shadows, brush stroke
barstools,
and
simple, vacant light, hosting
muffled asphalt, glossy
flickering
greens.
It is the sad, soft, safe sing-song of a
late hour, black hole
coffee, a
pitch of
melancholy,
(does pain better become
poetry, or
prose?)
and the
metallic contrast of my
thoughts with the
bareness of
unlit