The Clearing of a Mist

A day and a night and a day of mist
clears at a night’s sun fall.
A quiet wind whines overhead,
the city begins to resurface.
Damp roads appear to be lacquered,
cars still wet as any wave.
Glossy windows reflect the glow
of a sullen moon, of lamp posts,
like riddled fireflies
throughout a silent dew pond.
The melting mist reveals the worth
of metropolitan streets, only briefly forgotten;
but now silvered in droplets,
plastering a shinning city.

Bus Stop #78

Standing at bus stop #78
I clasp my armpits possessively,
as if someone had asked to borrow them,
but I refused.

It’s unbearably cold.
People pass with their faces hidden
behind thick wool; only their eyes exposed
to this piercing winter,
dying to reach their destination.

The sound of traffic,
the smell of diesel,
the tired, busy bodies heading somewhere,
anywhere besides this icy prison.
They look numb
to any care other than escaping.

Time stops
when a chilling breeze picks up.
Infant snow bursts into an unclaimed sky;
appearing as soft crystals dancing
amongst those who despise its very presence.
Everyone is still, waiting
for the snow to settle.

In the likeness of a City

White blooded drapes lace the death of trees.
Shards of bladed glass perfect figures
as delicate as the color of a doll.
A canvassed willow;
its strength withered by the heavy stole
of diamond water
as weak as the man who carved them.
Glistened reflections of traveled snow
burdens the bleak faces
hidden by cloth of wind,
speaking only in moans of anguish
with the breath of our own.
Iron curtains bound this town of slaved dogs;
savages of vulnerability and greed,
tired beyond their bitter ends
and so awfully cold.
Warmth from my hands barely manifests this conceit.
Fated prints pressed against a frosted pane
leave behind a sweated window
that disappears into a frozen dream
by way of my own breath;
as my papered words are forever doomed.