Turn away from bleeding nights
of hedonism, for nothing good
is heavenward, nothing virtuous
earthbound in the hours when
locals have vanished from taverns.
Nothing fills the soul more
than a bottomless glass of brew.
Nothing fills the soul anymore.
Cigarette fog creeps through
frigid city nights– how to swell
your lungs with want. Would-
be ghosts of unborn whispers,
these streets are teeming– how
ever empty they may seem.
(originally published in Erothanatos, Spring 2020)