The neon blinks its lies on the Strip,
I enter, feeling all my 65 years,
heart thudding,
lost in the labyrinth of this abyss,
Dead harmonies twisted through digital wires,
sterile and sharp.
Plastic fans scream,
glittered faces,
shallow echoes of a deeper past.
Then, a familiar glint, a flash of memory— an old familiar,
radiant in the crowd,
the years kind to my withered fragments.
Her joy,
her JOY pulls me back
to the edge of the abyss.