Take the trail through the city,
where dreams dye the ground
in oil smear agony.
Where the air is tainted
with the tears of a thousand neon angels.
Every cursed droplet stinging the skin.
The smell of acrid demon's breath
wafts through the grated gills
of the gutter swell,
and the looming towers
pierce the heavens as we walk through hell.
Past the graffiti scrawls,
haunted wails crawl
upon warped walls.
Through the disused station hall,
across the wasteland
that even the weeds avoid.
The pathway always circles back.
To this place at the beginning
of the end of the darkest night.
Where the heart stops
mid attack and screams.
A memory of rain.
Cleansing the streets,
when yesterday
was a burst watermain
of possibility that flowed
down the drain.
In the dead of polluted moonlight,
the man in black staggers past,
as he eyes up the backwater night.
A scream in the chasm of his mind.
like a shotgun blast, echoing
a scream of a past life,
left beaten in the overgrown steel forest.
Lost in his own head,
he staggers deeper into this place
he has come to dread.
The demons are rife,
but the man strides on by,
eyes to the ground,
watching the dying insects
clinging on to their final choking breaths.
Unstringed guitar with
warped wood, and cracked fretboard
hugs tightly against the wall,
to stop the world from crumbling.
A headstone to the life he fled,
for there is no calling in being good
when the night keeps on falling to the dawn.
The Watchman no more,
He heard the hum screaming his name
like a guitar amp feedback loop,
now his heart can’t bear to hear
another dawns song calling.
