Poetic Movements

  My demons sleep quietly under the full moon now, but other nights they stalk and howl like the ghost wolves of Bucharest. The large boulevards are as deserted as many their lights are, and of all the nights tonight with all the remaining Christmas decorations and lit up skylines, it feels the darkest of all. Yes, the city hosts its strangers and the youngest the children the more the milk the greater the need to undo and become again. Far from the shiny boulevards, the sideways remain true to their darkness not faking any kind of virtue not looking for temporary saviours. The animals human and other lick each other's wounds and carry on the hunt of the night before it's too late for apologies and too early for excuses. For every battle lost a soul carrier takes over, becoming and rebecoming never undone never out of opportunities, the last hope of the damning and the damned. The wolves howl tonight, the c...