A low hanging chandelier
swings among blue smoke,
and we cry for its loss.
The boys and girls all gather for rum,
eager eyes reflecting
the dusty light of our low chandelier.
Their mouths stretched tight,
freeze into icy smiles,
as music echoes through the streets
It creaks and it crumbles.
Women with gold dresses and
men with crisp, silver suits
slink through the fog.
I hear whispers of secrets,
scattering like rotten pearls.
They clink the tiles
of your empty home.
As I write under clouds of dust,
a dog snarls at the blurred moon
and the girls and boys all gather for rum.
An old trumpet howls.