nights belong to the poets

Life is like a vortex in the nights of a poet. A maelstrom that it empties and fills you continually, rough like a neglected beard, sweet as a caress. Alternation of love and disaffection, of irrepressible nature, of everyday decadence, of faces, moods, of rain that fertilizes you and of sun drying your skin and soul. Verses penned in the shadows, lit by a neon, among people going by. Verses of a life lived.