Tourism at The Night.

That was a bright ray,sneaking like the trickle of the once clear water in the sewer; it was
what the lens would capture in its quest for loneliness; for it was
what was to be felt,while their mornings slept; while
there was enough to seek the discomfort of the haze; and with
the wonder and the colour of the gaze,a town.

For once awake,it was what it was in the splendour of shades.

Dark streets and there are none the more morbid souls,
walking down with their curses and their ghostlike symphonies;yet
to be drowned and more to be brought,
it is but a wallow of a kind to be slighted and with it, a swallow of immortality.

Sleeping in its puddle of light, mirth, and that unfailing grime; there
lay those despondent glares and sweeping glances;afloat
on a wavery line of paperback hope, it beseeches these visitors,
not a worry, an enigma still, it calls and beckons; and asks of you
to enter with no plan or inhibition, to step inside the mausoleum, lightly beams of a kind.

Save the nighttime, was the murmur,and it crawls within the wings of a long forgotten story; you remember
to dust a memory of a child,when you were told of a place which was time; a place
which was a where or a when? Who knew of
a place where the midnight had abandoned sleep ?