My poor broken child,
Has life been unkind?
Is there no one to lift you?

Your time, it’s true, was dark
A world of silhouettes, cigarette smoke,
A place where light faltered,
Intimidated, burdened
With the smell of whiskey.

The wind blew tough at night,
When only fear lit the path ahead.

So here we are, the last of us,
Swizzle-eyed and weary,
Our wounds only for imagining;

I find these signs vexing.
Into the night with us, then
Let’s take what we can carry,
Let the rest decay.