Night Butterflies

Red light:
Blown out hair, cigarette in one hand, musical gimmick in the left.
Johnny Cash in her lips; you're my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Serenading each windowsill, batting lashes, faking whistles.

11 PM:
Hiding faces, exposing traces.
(Silk gown, blood red roses in her hair).
Persuading laces, flickering spaces.
(Blood on her skin, sweet and fair).

Morning:
The sea is always streaming in sapphire, and the sky is always burning in cerulean.
Her eyes are always in tears, weeping in the middle of cosmopolitan.
Nothing to lose. Still a lone freudian.
Good morning is a marketing strategy of fabricated reality, and nucleon.