Our Own Kind Of Lost

We are now sinking
into a night of blindness:
our own kind of lost
aesthetic, as we
let all decadence shimmer;
Gold and purple, well
illuminated
through persecution, torture,
butchery and all
modernity's glitz:
glamorous, contemporary,
moonbeam-free darkness.

The sodium-lit streets
of the cities at night are
ablaze with shadows:
no blue is blacker,
after all, than the spotlit bruise.
Here the lights gone out,
Extinguished by the
last dazzle of radiant
screens and flashing
billboards and signs and
smugly-lit windows that pepper
our forgetfulness.

We find it too hard
to remember exactly
what's been snuffed out;
Our memory loss
travels through a ceaseless,
engulfing blackness.
This time, it's not just
a case of receding light,
Unlike all before:
We are now sinking
into a night of blindness:
our own kind of lost.