Vespers Of Neon Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

The night loosens its grip as we step out,
streets still washed in the last colours of neon,
a soft shimmer running along its gutters
like a river deciding whether to keep going
or give itself over to morning.

A warm breath moves through the quiet blocks,
not an old enchantment now,
but something gentler,
as if the city itself were exhaling after the long hours,
letting us glide through its half-lit corridors
with the ease of dancers who know the floor by heart.

We drift past corners without hurry,
letting the world slide a little under our feet,
the sky paling just enough to hint at what's coming
but not enough to break the spell.
Somewhere far off, a tune from the night before
tries to rise again, softer now,
as though it knows it's time to step aside.

And in this almost-morning,
before the first edge of light finds us,
we move through the last of the neon's glow
with a quiet certainty
that the night has not ended-
only changing its shape.







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