Tin angel
Plastic Jesus
Brass whistle
That doesnt play
Cigarettes pay homage
To the dying day.
Blues quarter
In the neon
Brightly lit
Struggles to breathe
The glass reflects surrender
The prostitutes the need.
Steam train
In the distance
Its mournful call
To the falling night
Picture frame the vision
My tin angel out of sight.
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Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Offline) - Published: September 13th, 2026 03:09
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 2
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
So many possibilities, common things, a collectors dream, memories, nostalgia brings. Religious decorations, false and fake, an attention getter that no longer works, coffin nails to the day's demise. Night life brighter than day now dead but still tries to breath, Surrender in a glass, sexual release. Trains of the past, so sad the call of memory, end of the day set in a frame one worshiped out of sight. There is hidden beauty and sadness in this journey a fave
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