Film Noir Dream


The dream is sprawled naked

On cheap bourbon soaked sheets.

Bullet hole to the forehead,

Warm blood oozing

To the flickering beat

Of the third floor neon lady

Outside a cracked window

Where the soft moan

Of a saxophone

Creeps in and out of

Shadowy buildings

And alleyways of wasted lives.

Someone screams nonsense

In the hallway—

There may even be gunshots.

A door slams shut—is it mine?

If the pain is real, why

Haven’t I died yet?

    —

Published by 67steffen

My labels: grandfather, father, veteran, writer, poet, photographer and dreamer in pursuit of the meaning of life. Getting close, although I'm running out of time--probably why I'm so close.

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