Demons

Stopped in crowded venues and moonlit bustle,
Faces and lust disintegrate into absence. All
Action fades dead stares like whistling crickets
Singing away dark fogs of the eve. The ticks
Of father time singe each blink, lapsing the previous
Coldly.

Expression becomes art, turning our glances
Away from questions.

Her love was the gateway,
Bridged to perfection.

Her persona weaves through the
Untouched, grasping the single lip
Print in soulful sight.

Smoke evades me as certainty
Clouds waking steps. Embraced
In memory, where do I turn?