Sin City

Sin City

In the dying light of the desert, neon‑coloured ghosts rise,
their sighs a bright insistence on the night‑spun air.
All‑in against the wind, the street gleams like a slick, lost prize,
a gilded track where every flash of colour is a dare.

Those who wander here lose more than coin; they lose a breath,
the silence of a quiet country house replaced by a ticking casino clock.
The air is thick with the sweet promise of a repossessed hearth,
and every smile hides a cheaply‑built, shrinking wall of hope.

When moon‑mice spin a roulette wheel, time turns the corners of time,
and the games of chance dispense a crooked kind of grace.
The gamble of a life‑time sits on a carpet of bright dread,
the quiet educated footfalls replaced by a rush of adrenaline.

The city flickers with a fatty, radiant vitality; black‑and‑white lens in the night,
while your every thought is a movie reel of a thousand colour‑rich dreams.
You are flanked by a boundless, beaded plume of you are the light,
reminding you that temptation becomes a heart‑open the worst of enigmas.

The day you leave you'll have tasted a delight that no one in your town can taste,
black‑black doubles, a slick, bright and dream.
You are a traveller, marked by your steps into an alley miss‑s t by the light,
a path of the streets that sinks the weight of a night forever.

Where the city's bright side is never tired, the legendary signage hums,
the keep is not a tragic fact but a place that unequivocally takes you by the hand.
If you are looking for an escape—your land takes the multitude,
You have technique in an eye that will find a limit an end.