The Decay of a Mooncatcher
There once were dreams of the day,
Where one could catch the sun,
And pass it off as light.
Then the moon rises,
And a new game of catch begins.
Living for the night life
Without light or fire.
Absent from the twined catchers of the past
Forgetting the future,
Embracing the twilight.
The night, this night
Filled with haunted sidewalks and raw fish shops;
Pizzerias fresh with paste. No
Time to worry, only to hurry;
Gone clubbing, for the exercise, really
That's all I can say;
Taking part in the games bachelors
And tycoons
used to play.
Girls no older than twenty-five,
Men far too old,
With enough in their pockets to feed their
folding bellies to the brim.
Black canes and top hats,
An aristocratic grandeur,
All within the drapes of theater.
Outside;
A dull roar behind closed doors
But out here there is a whimper. Like the pleading
Of a pup, the kind that rips your gut open
And hurls and hacks your organs into a nauseating soup;
The kind that makes you whimper.
Too.
The ground is sleek and wet,
Its visage never breaking from
A shiny exterior.
Fake.
It feels fake.
Artificial; an illusion to bribe those with
money and tempt them with things they know,
Deep down inside,
they can never touch.
Inside;
Smoke that attacks your nostrils
Without knocking first.
Like that ill-fated in-law
who's never satisfied.
Top hats keep flying, young men continue to swoon,
but the girls taste eighty,
though they are only twenty-five.