Woe to the contemplative real estate,
where the red light shines
quiets itself.
Shines again.

Where the sound is loud enough to oust
the compulsion of rationality
conceding to lunatics.
Growing like absurd flowers.

Bold crimson lines swaddled in shadow,
haunting the eyes, even in darkness,
animated almost.
Stop motion secrets.

The red light cries out endlessly,
while shapes play in the spaces between,
the noise flirting like waves.
Swallowing the shore at dusk.

Echoes of solitude.