Fluidity, that laps away at

favourite finds; a predatory,

poisoned ivy vine, that spreads

like somber hues, and sorry news,

a secret song of sadness,

that snags on softer fabric,

catching it inside its icy-grip,

that tears and rips, like turpentine.

Anger like this, is guillotine,

that races wildly to cause a scene,

enraged by novelty, an offence

much worse than commodity.

And as it melts, to ooze out

from the room, just to retreat.

It swallows the signs, and

all the lights that line the city

streets.

I swear it gets so vibrant bright

and blinding white that you

would think the world had

self-combusted, caught on fire,

taken up pyromania-inspired

admiration.

Scarlet reds then black again,

orange-dead, like ashen dread,

burnt orange, just like the sky

during an atomic bomb,

yellows so bright and stark,

it starts to spark, then white again,

like roasted dust from cigarette butts,

and all the ash is all that remains,

of stories told, and memories of

all the nights we'd ignite, under

the lights that line the city streets.