lying in pools of pale blue light

there stand now three within a circle perfect,
a girl into the hand of night screams…
a man into the thorns of brush shrinks…
a figure into the pasty light runs.
the street lamp flickers once, long in time.
the figure under the pasty light shrinks…
the man under the thorns of brush screams…
the girl under the hand of night runs.

a fist is clenching, blood is rushing,
expectation is failing…
pushed back by familiar hopes forgotten,
calumny is betrayal’s reflection.
someone stumbles through dampened leaves
now lying in pools of pale blue light as
mirroring eyes close contrite.
forlorn, last sounds flood the yellowed street
with ghostly echoes gently yielding
hearts a’weeping. thus, ends the night
where lie now three outside a circle broken.