In the Glow of Last Clocks
They gather beneath flickering neon,
in narrow alleys where the pavement remembers rain,
where glasses clink like distant thunder
and the air smells of sweat, stale tobacco, and old promises.
A woman’s laughter, cracked and sharp,
spills into the room like broken shards;
a man leans on the bar—his elbow’d sorrow
ordering another round, trading hours for oblivion.
The jukebox—wounded, nostalgic—
grinds out a song of ghosts and faded dreams.
Bartender’s hands shake between bottles
as shadows press against the windows, watchers wanting in.
Walls scribbled with names never spoken—
with hearts shattered, hopes pawned.
Outside, the city coughs, writhes in sleepless neon;
inside, time stands still, drunk and defiant.
We are all believers here—
in the altar of amber liquor,
the hymn of poured whiskey,
in the communion of husbands and strangers.
Midnight cracks open like a broken mirror—
edges sharp, reflection distorted.
Beer calls; gin beckons;
the bouncer counts bodies, not sins.
And when the music fades,
when the lights cut low—
they linger, some to forget, others to feel everything
in the hollow between heartbeats.
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