For the faded and the damned…
There is a barbershop found through the tunnel that runs under Central Station where the lonely of the city converge to cut ties with the world
And some poor girl cries on the steps of an old porch where down and through her hands the sorrows of the damned slip helplessly to converge,
Like the old bums of Taylor Square who drown under the weight of emptied bottles never to remerge,
While in the speeches of the ceased cold winds hide to remind of the cruel fates that whispered alone in the early morning,
And surely the pretentious find light in blank stares, with their souls drained of warmth and might we cut into their chests for want of feeling nothing but piles of dust and forgotten dirt would spill,
Like the scattered clothes and sheets of children left abandoned in screams that sound from behind the walls of homeless homes,
And somewhere the elderly sit on trains holding their hands tightly and in glassy eyes it’s clear that the ones they once loved have passed quietly to another world,
And in the shadowed spaces of silent pubs lone men sit with no one save for the dimmed floors to hear their tales,
When under bridges addicts mill about, their lives lost to the most mundane of existences and how peculiar that within their pursuits of self sustenance they pass the time finding solace in one another.
Phone calls at four AM told only of calamities.
The fade spilt from those forlorn evenings when I rode through the cities streets about the midnight lights and it was just me,
And the darkness,
And her lack of life.
