Walking home alone after last call
a rising moon feathers petals
across the alley’s pits and peaks.
Lost and found glimpses flash muted night hues,
as clouds span Luna’s vast and shining face.
A powdered ghost shimmers, a sprawled victim,
outlined in chalk by GFPD staff long after
life’s last breath.
I stop to gawk at its empty space,
and try to unlock its stories
slammed into a silhouetted still-life ending,
written in stone.
Emptiness tickles night’s deep void,
running her fingers down
the length of my spine
Brenda Warren 2013.
Note: This is not autobiographical. I’m far too old to be out until last call. 😉
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