The sun is in a precarious spot
hardly
hanging on,
sickly
shining on,
fading fast,
trying to
turn
off.
And here we walk on dirty streets.
And here we breathe in bus fumes.
I look at my hands
dirty like the gutter.
Everything meets the horizon - running or
falling - too
fast.
The Moon takes her spot suspended
above the rooftops.
She looks older than she is.
Like a whore overused…
by poets’ pens.
Her and i will die together one day –
after Mr.
Sun collapses
in a
crashing cacophony.
Ours will be silent.
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