with fingers lit

street lights direct with fingers lit
down the avenue of
dreary, and black-fading.

golden cream speaks in the
sallow bulb, with its yellow
discharge, and handsome midnight shine.

cold blinks from the fog,
wrapped like wool for a shivered beggar
around our waists - our brittle waists.

like fingerprints, we left our sighs
all around that desperate place,
as if the surreality was all that we know.

no time meets with us;
we walked outside such ideas.
the day was the night, and the night was the night, again.

dew was ever present,
as it dotted our brows like children's fingerpaint on wax paper.
sleep was deprived, for sure.

we tried smiles,
we tried facades and all sorts of playful gesture,
but our despondency pushed through, like a preacher,

as he pushes through a crowd of non-believers,
yet those lit-up fingers kept pointing ahead,
assuring that we'd smile in the end.