The dying embers of the day that has been,
Are yet again extiguished with a feline hiss.
The sounds of the Solar rule, the cars, the people,
Are slowly muted, allowing the instruments of Lunar's shift
To play their symphonies.
The river,
A continuous trickle that gentle tickles
The concrete guide that contains it;
The jocular clash between nature and man.
The nightlights of the street do glow,
Offering wanderers comfort and warmth
As they go on their journeys back to their
Boats that sail across the calm waves of the Sea of Dreams.
Yet thus as the day transforms to dusk,
The orchestra of the night,
Those birds,
Those trees,
That shudder in the breeze,
All is interrupted by the gravelly roar
Of a middle-aged man, pissed,
Vomiting outside his front door.
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