We Are the Orphans of the Dying King

At dusk
we emerge.
At dusk
as the fat man
dressed in sharkskin
ascends the tallest tower of this city
as if
to escape from an ocean rising from depths and obscurity to drown the streets,
then we emerge. In surging currents.
Too dark for sight,
we navigate the night by neon light.
Disturbing the placid shadows
on shadows: we are invisible.
Spinning artificial
faceless grins
that shine at a distance.
We are the soft-eyed creatures that cavort in boisterous hordes,
worshiping the moon,
for soon the sun
will run off all our abstractions;
making us real again.
We burn the house in pieces when its cold, and every day it seems a little colder.
We grow our teeth long and wear great masks painted in the colors of indifference.
We answer to any name,
we do not deign to keep one.
We are ambiguous,
anonymous
glorious.
We are shadows saturated with bawdy singing.
We are the orphans of the dying king.