New Orleans nighttime smells like stagnant water and cigarettes.
It has the gritty feel of aged plastic beads, hanging on the trees,
the ones that never fall.
The light never fully recoils, leaving sanguinity in the sky, but despair is in the soil.
Those who crawl come out, multiplying hastily, and blood is drawn.
The ones that never stand again.
The New Orleans night,
it isn’t concrete and streetlights.
It is the fight,
the build,
the battle,
and then the recovery.
It is New Orleans past mourning,
and after the darkness
- Lillie, age 16