tinsel town

late at night
early in the morning
after all the glitter has fallen
dripping down the worn facades
scenes washed into pretenses
of water colour puddles
like gasoline rainbows on wet streets
sound, mere ghost echoes
absorbed into walls and walkways,
wanders off directionless
without mouths

egos rise from the leftovers
bleak, bland dawnwalkers
tread the ashen border of day
afraid of the light yet drawn
to the promise of warmth
real human heat from working hearts

vampires of counterfeit existence
covet the sun
but turn before melting
lost again in the fear of life.

Patricia Cresswell

meet Patricia Cresswell