cold to the touch

the moon is an instrument,
the sun a conductor,
my senses a disheveled street musician -
making noise and fighting off poverty

and all the patrons and animals who crawl on by are quickly growing old and impatient,
leaving the bars and clubs with a glimmering suspicion
gravity taking them to arid plains of boredom and disease
where god and the internet leave them content

and when this ragtag symphony dissipates i join them,
anonymous and tragic
like the voices in our dreams we effortlessly forget