In perfect linear angles, the shadows slice the concrete path.
The blue party lights add ghostly vigour.
Brown hands toil, browned by rigour.
They dance around in rhythmic pandemonium
Through the murky cavities of the macabre residence.
Yet perfect silence prevails resolutely,
Stabbing vacuous corpses ruthlessly.
Through morning light they lie in deep slumber,
Fantasizing of animated times, now just tormenting rhymes.
And in the night, the foul feast begins again,
This is the festival of lights my dear men!
No comments:
Post a Comment