To Charcoal sky’s
To late night jazz
To copper air
To black note books of poems
To cold coffee cup rings
To warm cigarettes
To lost dreams
To Long talks to your self during the witching hour
To midnight frost
To empty corners and yellow street lights
To seasons mist
To Solitude
To moonlit alley crawls
To the stars at the bottom of empty wine bottles
To insomnia
To me
Time Idols  between  heavens storms
Given our hours forlorn