Blue Chessboard

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The last flame gets snuffed by a ruthless steam,it's cold,and few windows are still thinking
Tires can't stand the humid walk on the now sleeping carpet,time is over,but a broken neon wants to speak
Dark shades are on the palette,served for a silent portrait of the neighbourhood,right,that usual place but in lack of words now
There is a lantern in the distance,but it's worthless,no matter what it can provide,a blanket of asters is enough for everybody
Even the ashtray shoves away exhalations to be delighted by the vibe,next to a glass of whiskey who rests deeply before the bulb does it
Only clocks are articulating the moment,but this is a concept and not just a simple amount of numbers,plus a muse for the writer's clue in front of his papers
The black train doesn't have stops,its keeps on moving to pave the way for new mail,alarms,frantic plans like the drink ready inside all those cups,radio,firsts noises of industries and the brothers handymen
Right now the city doesn't need the folks' opinion,and we are aware of it,as the clouds know well,that the great satellite needs to shine above puddles and sidewalks
It's just another postcard from a January night.