The neon glow of imported glamour
lights the shuddering tar track
a gleaming glitter, in dusklight.
The last of the living lights.
Stare only at the trails that pass,
and the story still is told true.
With a thin glowing front, and red back,
in the neon lights our scene is set.
Glowing red eyes, in prowling pairs,
glow dimly for miles, in cardinal straightness.
Behind, where my own red glows,
are the blue-gold hunting torches.
What good, is one sad little light,
in amongst this hunting party?
In a flare of a gleaming,
I am born against the pavement.