All Things Pass

Outside, on the busy streets, there stands a man;
Dressed questionably and fumbling in his pocket,
he searches for keys and cigarettes. You watch this.
Silence, like a great mother of Earth, seizes the street.

Unafraid, your feet dangle from the balcony,
swaying melancholically in the cosmopolitan breeze.
Lights jutt from deathly bars through the clouds,
tearing them apart without guilt, or honour.

Windows shake and cars rumble, cats meow loudly.
Souls litter the roads and shoot upwards towards you.
A woman cries out in despair, seeking solace.
You hear all this, and stay there, swinging.

Sounds bounce from brick to brick, glumly.
Steam simmers and boils under the paving,
pushing passers-by further along their way.
Spotlights scour the city, beating themselves.

Inside, nobody is waiting and stained glasses stay put.
An ashtray marked with last night's debauchary,
a note from a lover. Your coffee table as a vessel.
And how could you but forget, how could you remember?

Forget-me-not music blossoms now, pricking your ears,
Lady Moon grins at partygoers, guiding them home.
Studying crater boils, eyes straming, you glance away,
and removing yourself from the rails, you swing back.

Only now does your bed await. Sheets ripped, pillows flat.
Headboard tattooed with women's names and numbers,
memories and misadventures. Smells and sounds.
Finally you bring your body back to bed,

and without a sense of remorse you steel yourself,
and without a sense of time you prepare yourself,
for another night of harrowing truths.