Beneath the dead man's party

Beneath the dead man's party.

The windows warm our souls, and from them floats

And flutters laughter, resting on our ears

Like butterflies; so faint, it brushes tears

Across our cheeks, and life under our coats.

And yet, the warmth is rapid: soaking through

The tarmac, slaking off the coats of men

And women passing in the street again,

But they will never catch the raucous views

Within the hotel rooms above their lives.

The orange light spills out, to welcome all

The night into the joke; and yet, it speaks

In such a language that our minds

Don’t understand; the dead will call through walls

And yet we miss the light they chose to speak.

Source - http://noahslark.com/post/86869066451/beneath-the-dead-mans-party-the-windows-warm-our

The painting is called 'Ghost Hotel'

Painted by u/greyexpectations - http://www.reddit.com/user/greyexpectations

A Note - The artist included my poem on their blog! VERY EXCITE!