The decaying voices
Of a prospering city
Cough up nuggets
They then spit
At the ring fingers
Of confrontations
Not yet met with love
But with lust.

A narrative
Told all at once
By everyone
To no one.

The old
Life on a dead
Man
Who keeps
Throwing a look
At me
Bleeds through
Anew.
And I
Can only hope
Our eyes
Do not mirror.

A cheap cigar
That claimed your throat,
Held you by the finger tips
The way the bank clerk
Held the pen
For your disapproval.
Your unsuccessful
Yet prompt
Promotion of being.

Rhythms
Of a swayed
Populous,
Sway us no more.