September 24, 2018 | Occasus | Issue 8 | Poetry

We Call it Swing For a Time

The rain in the city is a quiet sound--
Syncopated drops on sidewalks.
Grotesque reflections borne in puddles straddle the peripheries of passers-by.
Cinder colossi crowd the sky.
 
Exhausted air tumbles in hollow alleys.
Neon signs crest above waves of flaccid faces,
plasma screens and LCD glitter in marketable madness.
Every night is a car crash.
Every stranger’s smile plastered on.
 
A million like you think your thoughts in slightly different colours.
Tattered souls beating themselves into submission--
a collective unconscious of myriad minds mired in unconscionable consequence.
The sky is one glimpsed from the bottom of a rustic well.
Black and void--
lost and transient.

JAMESON LAWSON is a 22 year old creative writing student raised on the Grey-Bruce peninsula.