Noir

by davidchrzanowskipoetry

Writing backwards from beginning to end,
A deep wind bellowed from Nordic legend.
His boss now dead in a reek, signature of Noir;
A stale funk belched down the corridor.
A jamboree of timely whores
Weltered in drips and strains.
Twenty-four hours into 120 minutes,
and the awkward moment he realised it was his,
Hours taken from his watch; contrived in theft
and his unkempt creation was all he had left.

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