Last Laugh Poem by Wes Thompson

a street lamps flickers
and dims until the only light it casts
is but a reflection of the moon
the wind lends a whisper
to every leaf
on every tree lining the empty street
chattering
it seems they all have something to say
but the flowers lay silent
glowing in midday
they now appear quite fitting
to adorn the finest of graves
bled dry by night's contrast
they curse the full moon who
binds their petals in such eerie bloom
shadows dart closer behind my gaze
matching my pace until
slowly closing the distance between us
their mocking foot steps
in such perfect rhythm
they call my bluff as
I halt on a whim
from the corner of my eye
they take form in unrecognizable objects
in the darkness
until I hardly believe they were there at all
but there is no such escape
it all boils down to whether or not
my feet can find the swiftness
not to run
but to chase