The green light has frozen over.

See that haunted house,
how its windows
flicker desperately
in their attempt at survival,
how every lampshade droops
under the sublime gravity
of its glassy tears,
how each blackened bulb
crystallizes then shatters
like the constellation-mottled
pupils of the starry-eyed--
of any
optimist
dreamer
lover
bright-young-thing.

Nomadic phantoms float along
the pin-***** stalagmites
of the ceiling in ringlets of
emerald shadow.

Surely,
dawn will break,
(unconventionally.
tragically.)
The sun itself shall bow to ruin;
and, in a remarkably quiet gesture,
it will fizzle out
like a can of cherry cola
that's gone stale,
like humanity's own taste
for the light
(and its growing appetite
for the darkness).

Still,
we drink on--
in wait of the rush,
indulging in the hope
that somewhere
in this dying
expanse of universe,
there is someone
who will love us
for the tipsy,
poetic souls we are.