In the hours where most sleep
I sit in a purple lit booth
something beautiful catches eyes as they adjust
neon lights flicker as it dances…I watch
soft music plays the soundtrack of inhibitions leaving
fake smoke to cloud judgement so what is seen is seen
what is felt is felt
the night, the morning, make love to born a single time
where mistakes are suppressed by the high of letting go
bartenders, over there gossip, whisper, and glare
still tolerant of these patron games
but only until the last tip
nothing good comes of the hours between night and day
it is where fantasies live in the moment
and shadows hide the truths of deception
for the thrill of finding places that the world forgets about
are games played by strangers in pass
with lost souls, bruised hearts,
and access to the wrong medicine
These hours are magical. Sometimes in a good, other times in a bad way. It’s definitely as if you are in some sort of a twilight zone. Caught in the middle of something that shouldn’t be. Great time for a writer to be alive, out, and about. However, these days I prefer to catch some zzzzzs.
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Hahaha, that last line made me lol. So true. Those hours are very magical. Glad to hear from you. 😀
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This was so interesting to read
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