Night

I sit out in the night to wonder where the heady music comes from. Its a repetitive melody, twirling around the smoke of the night, circling the neon signs, whispering among the sleepy leaves of the dark trees. Out into the night-time heavens the melody floats, its wings the color of streetlights. Those special heavens for forgotten lives, wasted on humid balconies. It is good to know there is nowhere to go to. Nothing to do. No one to be. It lightens the soul. So it can feel its odd turmoil comfortably. The smoke never rises in spirals. It teases the soul. A tantalizing dream of ethereal nothingness. The night falls around like a wet blanket, murmuring the soft cadence of a mirage poet. The mind merges with this invasion. It unburdens the sorrow of its thoughts, into the cruel shallows of the night. The sporadic wind, mourns cheerfully, the splendor of dusk; the evenness of night, the music in the song. It is a song. Many songs. Fragmented in their scattered beauty, these little lives of seasons dance before the saddening self. The end lies in art. The end lies in giving up. Not in giving in. In giving up to the bitter skies, the sordid remains of ambition.

What is it so constant about the night? So difficult, so tuneless.