Dancing down black, bourbon soaked street tops,

mannequins painted with maniacal faces,

pulled by marionette strings, chase the luminescent double lines.

Cloaked behind unclouded skies, the mind sways,

thoughts rustling, like the windswept tree tops.

Dressed in shadow-dipped robes Her delirious monks

are drawn devoutly from their homes by Her orb,

hanging full of reformation in the sky.

Waxing and waning, the worshipers feel it in their blood,

a corporeal tide, proving themselves un-befitting a corpse.

Unerringly night follows day,

Monday looms like the last heavy brass resonance of the hour.

Silhouettes stretch into full bodied sirens and sickly skeletons

but in the morning, when the sun shines through the selenite panes

the true shape of things is once again revealed.