Fog. Displacement of senses...
Fragmented hues in scurry. Broken window, speed of limit.
Never been too strong to fight the enchantment of evening.
Air too cold. At 45, they say.
Keeping in common rhythm nighttime friends await.
The music a thundering tempo. Liquor the pouring rain.
The smell of crowd thick in the nose.
A few good men remain.
Brandishing humor as swords, a welcome, sinister.
A sad face standing out in the dark.
A few good laughs to still the pain.
And the whole of night and morning to revel.
As wine and art go together. Producing a new masterpiece.
Indefinable words meshed in the twilight.
Needs in form of clutches. At nothing and of one.
Heeding questions of sighs and reluctance.
Food by the hundreds in dazzling lights and shows.
Palatable condition of love and ever-growing wonder.
Knocks on wood and pilfer of calmness.
Sailing back by night to life by its boring peak.
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