Sestina

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It rains glitter amidst strings of fairy lights.

Beneath gold streamers, girls dance

clumsily on sky-high stilettos. As boys down

orange colored shots, each glass

hits the bar top, their minds no longer clear

and the DJ continues to play live.

 

 As the DJ continues to play live,

couples parade their passion in neon light,

to them the music barely even clear,

too loved-up as they dance

on the alcohol stained floor made glassy,

covetous bystanders told not to look so down.

 

 Wallflowers are also instructed not to look so down,

loudly advised that this is a time to truly live.

But they recoil, edging around broken glass,

make their getaway in dim light,

blindly through dry ice and stoned dances,

until they believe they’re in the clear.

 

 While the misfits stay clear

of revelers who try not to fall down

off sticky tables where they dance,

loners regret the choices they made to live,

when they watch crowd-surfing as they lit

up another rollup, staring through the glass.

 

 With them, the hipsters suck martini glasses

dry, the honied liquid so clear,

their vintage jewelry gleaming in the light.

Yet they join in shared contempt, looking down

at those who just want to go out and live

with flailing limbs in tone-deaf dance.

 

 Even with painful feet, they dance

and only rest to freshen up at the glass

of filthy toilets that see the action live

of drunken girls with minds unclear,

fix makeup in two minutes down,

before returning to strobing lights.

 

 The DJ continues to play live, boys ask for a dance

under fairy lights, on a dancefloor made of glass

that staff will clear, once night dies down.

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Elaine Mullarkey

About the Author: Elaine Mullarkey

She/Her Wordsmith and bibliophile that does a spot of writing every now and again.

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