Its skies are lovliest at night
when stars outshine the baleful light
of neon signs for skin care cream,
of daylight trends and gutter steam.

Its streets are forests for the dead -
the concrete ghosts - whose restless dread
crave daylight and the chilling noise
of Iphones, trams and yuppie toys.

I sometimes walk its greying halls
at dusk when stillness fills the malls
and Nothing clenches ancient fists
while whispering spells of Limbos' mists.

In seconds then, the forest floor,
is covered by a fog from shore
and dreamlike visions strikes me then
of frozen fjords beside a glen.

But dreams are dreams and rarely true -
the fading night leaves morning dew
to wash away the painful truth
that nothing known has endless youth.