Out the door at 
sunrise, juxtaposed 
against sultry 
silhouettes painted in 
alleyways, ruthlessly 
stalked by acoustic 
shadows. 
 
We fancy ourselves 
romantic bards and
written word insurgents,
but we never pen
anything reminisced 
by anyone. 
                   
                    We won't be the dead 
                    poets long remembered.
 
Freshly-ground, six a.m. 
caffeine infusion is our
abundance for the moment.

  Tomorrow will be
  our ingenious illusion.