Moustachioed

Cartwheel and folly through clouds of
yellowing cigarette smoke, as though
it’s our last day on Earth. Chandeliers
overhead make us insignificant; the
angry, permanent sparkles long for The
Rapture. When his voice musters its
own life, a silence compacts it with
vitriol; a million eyes and ears hang on
each note. “Let’s dance like there’s no
end in sight. Like these fires mean not
a thing to our tumultuous plight. Let
the sky rain down sulphur into our
upturned, wide eyes, and let us dance
to the beat of our fired hearts!”

#365DaysOfPoetry

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