Beneath all the ice, the cigarette butts,
a brittle, tiny earth.
Isn’t it funny; how we get by.
Neon, and those smells.
We cross our alphabet streets and occasionally share glances.
Married to only one thing, and not to a lover.
But to the plastic; in all of its mighty form.
Feel the night,
The day is a prison and the guards are our heros.