Oh Seattle, Seattle
If they say you're grey why is the sky filled with sun, Seattle? Oh,
We're at this place on the Hill that's dark
and filled with scribbled sharpie on the tables and the wall
that's filled, packed with a rail of a guy in tight black denim and a T-shirt, his hand running through platinum hair stuck up tall
and a chick with two braids leaning easy on the bar, her hands both wrapped around a pint glass from the tap, her eyes wide and teeth bared as she looks skyward with a laugh of irony and gall
and a bald kid whose head and square lenses catch all the light in this dank bar and reflect it back, blinding and burning rather than soothing us all
and the groups of all these guys and girls packed in,
these cliques that clack their feet to the beat of the music from the speakers above,
some bleating along separate but heard together,
all of us separate, but a herd together.
Like cattle, we don't even know.
Oh Seattle, Seattle, why is the night sky inside this bar so bright with stars? Oh Seattle.
@ellowrites @ellopoetry @nevoazul