Outpost 17 after midnight

Neon stutters softly down a rust-lined corridor,

Casting fractured colors on a long-abandoned floor.

A twang of handmade strings drifts lonely through the air,

Curling with the desert wind like a half-remembered prayer.

Low beats hum beneath the scene,

A pulse like something caught between

A fading dream, a cut routine—

A quiet ghost in the machine.

Outpost 17 after midnight,

Where the echoes move just out of sight.

Every note bends into the dying light,

Falling through the hush of a weightless night.

Static from an old console breathes against the wall,

Whispering its secrets through a failing signal call.

Footsteps of the past tap faintly under steel,

Soft as unresolved regret that time refused to heal.

Air grows thin along the hall,

Carrying fragments of a call.

Shadows breathe, expand, and crawl—

A rhythm deep, impossibly small.

Outpost 17 after midnight,

Where the dark leans in with a gentle bite.

Melodies flicker like a dying satellite,

Falling slow through the frost-blue twilight.

If loneliness has texture, it’s the hum behind the drum,

A lo-fi heartbeat echoing from where the beats come from.

Soft neon sighs across the dust that gathers still,

Tracing shapes of every moment I never learned to feel.

Outpost 17 after midnight,

Where each sound fades into the long quiet.

The final chord dissolves into the ambient night—

And the outpost sleeps… out of sight.