4 figures, the nighthawks, in the scene,
The tableau swathed in the dead of night,
The only illumination being the fluorescent lights from the ceiling,
The figures pique our curiosity,
with their mystical identities and relationships,
With bodies in vicinity, yet cognitively
miles apart in their own worlds.
A bizarre silence and eerie stoicism
taken over the sequestered city,
The illumination being dainty against
the blackout, ascribable to war cries and misery
It all feels so bleak and black, gloomy and grave,
dismal and disconnected.
It is in the yellow fluorescence, that we have grounds of hope for affinity.