Only one light bulb glares like
A broken down dressing room;
Flickering, like it was on a wick, and
Dancing vibrantly to
A Marc Bolan tune.
Shape-shifter paradise
When the moon come'th
And the creaks cease to sound;
Only impressions, vaguely dreamt,
When the noise is turned down.
Waves,
Like trimming,
Glide In the space around the room;
Whispers faint, and dim,
Speak of paranoia and doom.
Pensive and pondering I lye,
Taken aback,
On patios at night smoking cigarettes.
Lilacs on crescent moon walks
For a cheap change of scenery.
Lunaphilia for my imprisoned internal talks
Feeds my dreary summer softly.