Mona Lisa and the Frail Moon

                       Night gently scatters,
                       as autumn leaves descend from withered branches,
                       silently carpeting the gravel asphalt, unraveling.... .
                       throughout city outskirts,
                       where roadways brandish streaking traffic signals,
                       and sleeking sound-waves
     
                      Decay and poor posture, I've walked along deserted urban streets, a victim of simmering heat rising off cemented walkways. One too many evenings along forsaken corridors of panic and architecture, conversed in the village over outdoor seating arrangements, slept in abandoned condominiums beside the artificial fireplace.
                    
                       I've awoken before noon,
                       some of the time.
     
                       In the terrible hearth of desire I've lingered. Cruel fingers smoothing out interwoven intervals. I've felt forlorn premonitions, something dying in the vacant mausoleum. Tiled with porcelain, stained glass windows and repertoire. Mona Lisa and the frail moon. The Louvre in Paris, whose wept with Van Gogh's forbidden flowers, in linoleum banquet halls, the reign of Davinci disassembled, through abandoned libraries and centuries.
  
                       I've grown tired and introverted, mounting the velour staircase in perpetual sorrow. Remotely staggering through meaningless statures of disillusion, profusely sweating out toxic amphetamines and alcohol. Her and her graveyard antics, and promiscuous demeanor. Between velvet raindrops and leather interior, the scent of new car seats (straight from the dealership). A bottle of Christian Brothers below the grey skies, she clings to a steering wheel in the antique parking lot, whipping the transition into neutral, cruising down Fifth St. past the liquor store, and onto the brooding interstate.