Repeating The Circle

The evening skies,

dyed in red,

the simple townsfolk

will go to bed.

But the sneaky ones

come out at night,

moves in the shadows,

don't go into light.

But not only the aggressive ones

at this nighty time,

bartenders, DJ's, bards

which speak to the rhyme.

The quiet trixters,

playing their games,

winning their money,

with tricks, without shame.

A nasty smell

comes out of some houses,

drunken civilians,

deep Sorrow, quick, quiet like mouses.

Every good time

will come to a end.

In this bar

much money was spent.

The sun will rise,

the sneaky one's grudge,

the suspicious figures will go home,

they don't earn much.

The civilians wake up,

get their breakfasts ready,

they are not like the nighty scum,

their hands still are steady.

They go to their work,

complain about the little things,

the coffee was cold,

my wife lost her rings.

They live their lifes,

so easy and clean.

They don't have to worry

what tomorrow will be.

They do their jobs,

so happy and small.

They don't have to worry

about the judges call.

They get home in the evening,

tired, but happy.

They watch shows or listen to music,

so unreal and sappy.

But some just stand up,

eat what they have,

take daggers, take knives,

to keep their families safe.

The trixters are sad,

sometimes they think:

'Could I have friends?

I need a drink...'

The bars will open,

hoping that at the end

of the night

their business still stands.

The evening skies,

dyed in red,

the simple townsfolk

will now go to bed.

Repeating the circle,

don't worrying about their lives,

while some others

will fight their last strife.