The night is a bustling, hip café
We haven’t the pull to be admitted
The luminous windows tempt and betray
Their warm allure is counterfeited
Study the pools of pyrite and onyx
Fool’s gold mixed with ink tattoos bleak hours
Like desperate addicts, we seek our fix
Moonlight turns faces to dying flowers
Our envious eyes touch the fools inside
We mutter ancient curses in the dark
Over a sweet feast they glibly preside
While we, slow beasts, wave farewell to the ark
Tantalized are we by phantom pleasures
Exclusion calls for radical measures
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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