Noir

As a siren cries in the distance

a single man walks the night

along an empty city street

as the cloudy remnants of newly finished rain,
spread veinly across the sky
like a moth eaten curtain trying to hide the moon
which casts a pall lifeless gray over the ichor of the wet city street.

A solitary street lamp flickers violently before popping,
desperatley trying for one last attempt to assist the moon
to bring light to these dark, wet corners,
that even on the brightest day
never seem to get enough light.

As the man keeps walking,
Steam slowly flows out of a grate
by the corner of a nearby building,
the breath of the city itself
sighing at the loneliness of the street.

A few dead leaves line the wet, trash filled streets,
markers of the life that this night no longer seems present,
while a slight foul odor oozes out of a nearby alleyway,
but is all but carried away by a late autumn wind.

The man keeps walking,
as he knows he must.
He's one of the few left in these parts to cast light,
though mortal eyes cannot see it.
Still, his motives lie buried deep
in a forgotten pocket of an empty wallet.

This dark, wet city houses millions.
Though no soul can be seen now,
The man knows it is but brick and mortar
between him and its people
and yet still, as he walks the night in search of answers
he is impossibly alone.