Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jan 2015
At midnight the streets are wet concrete,
we lay our heads and sink into the reflected moon river.
The sleepless are the ones who wait until the world is dark and quiet,
They're the ones who declare a curtain war against the sun rise.
And as they put the day to rest,
The night bleeds black velvet into the empty artist
and the moon tastes like wine.
Written by
Please log in to view and add comments on poems