Absolution.

A hundred sweating, writhing bodies
stamp their weekday laden feet
upon the tainted deck.

The felt between throbbing speakers
and hordes of lust-drunk stompers
shakes as though it may tear.

Indiscriminate forget-me-nots are
handed out with grins and hips
to those whose memory blurs.

Cups of midnight absolution
are desperately sought by
self appointed social paragons.

Pulsing lights from a ceiling unknown
pour out their golden net and catch
two hundred wide-eyed glares.

And in the darkness they may move
like fairytale monsters under cover,
but all stay still once caught.

Spotlight.

There's a wind up spotlight
shining over a midnight battleground.
Snow, several inches thick,
renders defining the terrain
entirely impossible.

The Operator works harder,
the snow becomes brighter,
but the mechanism creaks
and breaks under the strain.
The light tilts downwards
and grants the Dark its reign.