the city slept quietly
beneath of a veil of light rain.
dark were the streets that ran through her;
asphalt veins fixed with dim orange lights.
factories toiling endlessly
exhaled plumes of black smoke.
they blanketed the sky and
forbade the glow of stars.
a low rumbling of night trains,
compose subtle snores
between breaths of oil.
she lay still.
catatonic.
hypnotized in the ebon daze,
save for the swath of neon cutting into
her decaying heart, where stragglers remained.
exchanging credit for sex and illegal wares
a time some call the witching hour.
law abandoned place, this vile thing,
refuge for the sick and
prison to the impoverished.
hope resting in those
who have yet to trade away their souls
to neon signs and buildings of chrome