Want Some Reviews? Forum New poem :)

Sirens sound - the musician composes
lucid dreams that rouse the esoteric aims
of their phony games, the mystic flames
of optimistic dames beside their benign
beaus - unaware of their sporadic foes.
The accordion bellows endlessly along
each daydream, languishing delusions
with urban illusions and uniting the
novice’s confusions. The music rings in
the souls of the queens and kings; the
violinist snaps their immortal heartstrings.
Pariahs devour narcotics whilst weaving
down the boulevards of hallucination,
supping nectar in the station with a
sense of elation, it pops  the bubble that
lazes sluggishly the morning after the
night before - the lingering smell of regret
of the metropolitan war and the dance
floor duet, getting caught in the drift net.
Patricians meander through the avenues
donning avant-garde attire precociously,
bowler hats and shoulder pads atrociously
scraping against the proletariat ferociously -
altercating, challenging and conversing
with a ‘good evening’ to roaming strangers,
they delight in the dangers, become the
avengers for the small-town folk, beginning
to choke on the cigarette smoke that
shrouds them with a cloak of chronic
agoraphobia. They fear living, dying,
forgiving and loving, but when the
commuters commute and the artisans
arrive, they cascade into sleep, afraid
of faltering as their souvenirs fade,
their memories decayed, their conscience
strayed. Dreams of flying, fear of
trying, reviving the highest of highs
while the dreams materialise and life
reaches the skies, they compromise,
surmise, improvise. They win the prize.