Fire Flies

Lost chances fly 

from the tips 

of my fingers

and talent lies 

buried in the sand

beneath my bare, 

bony feet.
The red exit signs 

all flash enter,

as the confused 

strip of neon

flickers erratically,

as it dies a slow, 

blinking death.
Fire flies light 

the lonely night,

softly 

with archaic lies.

Truth be told, 

they are nothing

more than beetles 

with a spark.

  • Photographer: Unknown 
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