When they heard
the monotone—
simple—bitrate sounds,
they came to
our streets at the nights
of October and November,
but seldom
in December. They swarmed
like flies to the light
and with the same
lightning speed
they took flight—
burning out
like their deflated
pockets, with enough
left for the ride
home. At midnight, they see
tall faces in the skyline
afar still illuminated,
with cascading gold and colors
in all shapes, yet stagnant.
Lackluster, at its best.
Traverse the alleys and streets,
and they flow like
electricity going through
gaudy copper veins.
