Suicide is a coward’s way.  Living life
is another coward’s route.  Cowards, the shallow way of all
slouching, shouting about straights they deserve.  Spit,
momma’s sons of the night.  Ladies of the dawn
dye their cares in the sea
of the city.  Lives unreal.  From dusk until
sunrise, senses reflecting off skyscrapers
stunted, tricked, gold capers light-playing
metal, bricks, mirrors,
errors
lost in their design.