You thought you were safe. We all think we are. On this spinning rock, living off the light of a dying star.


Darkened club,
noise blaring.
Neon shirts
stand tall,
an ecosystem
of tropic wonder.

The drinks are cheap
and terrible.
The smells are strong,
an undercurrent of human
not bleached out.

Strobe light catches
one dancer. Eyes closed,
leaning back, fully in
a ridiculous motion.
Platinum hair, red lips –
for one moment, she is
a perfect image.

A second’s reflection –
everyone is haunted
by death.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.