An obelisk, massive in the sky, buries the mall in its shadow.
It stretches to the east while the ants scurry about,
their antennae like skinny fists that reach towards the clouds.
They bustle in the capitol, checking their ant-wrists and hurrying from the sun.
I drift amongst them, limp hands trailing behind,
born to die.
Time was a river and the present flowed through us,
the current too strong for these hands.
Imaginary lines between our fingers,
without beginning or end.
A loss so deep the water looked gray,
I came to leave,
nothing gold can stay.
I tossed coin after coin and then my whole wallet,
and they sunk, sunk,
right to the bottom.
A pondering past,
a future present only now.
you’ll be a fable,
and I’ll be a bug in a crowd.
How will these streets still glow once you’re gone?
How will you find your way home at night?
Walled away in a stony keep,
woken so violently only for sleep!
Fiercely independent, I stood in line,
waiting for the ending that was promised to me,
but as faith turned to fear, I looked around,
and found a world, spoils spread wide as can be.
Hoping that I might borrow from its hearth,
I put my acid tongue far beyond the roof of my mouth,
and as I was swept ever forward, I caught a glimpse of the clouds.
How improbable the sky!
How innumerable the stars!
How strange it is to be anything at all!
I am so pathetically small.
A great wave came, and ate me up,
seeped into the soils and became a forest.
Facing the sky, I rose from the ground,
to find a school of children, playing as they do,
chasing each other through the trees,
I saw you and I a lifetime ago.
On a bench, a part apart,
I was the sunlight that spilt through the leaves.
My face, it withers.
I chose where we shall meet.
You were the star that guided me home,
where ever that may be.
A river winds through the swamplands,
cleaving the north from the south,
the skyline reflected in the glassy green water,
where the fish pass between the kayaks and the docks.
There is a dull pressure on my gut.
It reminds me that I am here, but I pay no attention to it.
A banjo is carried on a warm country breeze,
that reminds us it’s almost July.
The sun scalds the shadows as they scurry through the weeks,
but it’s cool inside.
From the kitchen, I can hear you singing…
These streets I haunt,
and these streets, they haunt me too,
but as I lead, the road follows;
the stones crumble beneath my shoes.
An echo through a once vibrant, vacant city,
from the east, there is a whisper, a clamor:
a chorus of hearts, swelling over the harbor.
Rising, steady, like a beating drum,
over the ramparts and fountains,
and the white-domed buildings with flags on top,
louder, growing ever louder,
rising, then gone,