The Quiet Don of Neon Night

Beneath the neon hush, his silence weighs like lead, Cigar smoke writes soft vows where fear is quietly fed. A whisper cuts the air; the city keeps its role, In windowed light and shadow, he governs every soul. His tuxedo holds the night, a polished, patient blade, While distant cranes and skylines mark deals that will be made. One lifted hand commands what no loud choir can say: In velvet rooms of power, the dawn must wait its day.