Neon-Tinged Despair

The synth's sharp cry, a neon-tinged despair, Drum machine's pulse, a rhythmic, cold embrace, Hair sculpted high, a defiant, frozen stare, In darkened clubs, we found our rightful place. The bassline walks, a solitary beat, Through smoky haze and flashing strobe's harsh gleam, Lyrics of angst, both bitter and bittersweet, Reflecting fractured hopes, a broken dream. The clean guitar, a fragile cutting sound, Above the layers synthesized and deep, Where awkward moves on polished floors abound, And secrets whispered, promises to keep. A generation finding its own voice, In angular lines and choices stark and new, Rejecting past, embracing future's choice, Bathed in the glow of something bold and true. So let the echoes of that era play, A vibrant ghost in music's restless soul, For in the new wave's stark and stylish way, A timeless yearning still managed to unroll. ©bfa040525