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
