A blue opening in the world as the rain was ending , gregarious Pigeons scramble atop store front perches in the drying western wind
Tired pedestrians labor wetted city sidewalks , late morning
silhouettes appear against post World War II row settlements
Saturday clerks prepare street displays , elderly couples window
shop for bargains with disdain , people and Freight trains trudge along , in route to unknown places* ....

You are calm and reposed
Let your beauty unfold
Pale white, like the skin stretched over your bones
Spring keeps you ever close
You are second-hand smoke
You are so fragile and thin, standing trial for your sins
Holding on to yourself the best you can
You are the smell before rain
You are the blood in my veins

The way you looked at me
With water drops clinging to your lashes
Built a fire of desire
That only you could tame

When your hands would roam
I got this tingle of want
A want that couldnt be exposed
For you were my guilty pleasure
My secret

a glass sits on her head
remaining stalwart
standing tall despite gravity
and table decor of cracked crystal
and a slender green bottle

worn rosewood table
holds up a slender green bottle
and it's companion
a stalwart piece of cracked crystal
a glass sits on his head
as he considers gravity
and it's place at the table

Wide eyed,
dense and intense,
Trying to climb
the ladder of hopes.

Strong and determined,
following the rules
we forgot how to stop
and think about values.

Humid blind,
we forgot how to ask
we forgot what to ask,
resigned humankind.

Threw up my garbage,
happy there's always someone
coming and picking it up
cause anyway what we all think
is who cares about the damage?

Progress is all that we want
and this world slowly becomes
a playground for our minds
programmed by the big guys.

Pulling my curtain away,
I check any visible sign
of something we once knew and worshiped
as ruling our majestic planet.

Superficiality,
Ignorance,
these are the words
that come to my mind
when I want to describe
what we strongly embrace
as the superior race.

And as time passes by
all that remains is a sigh,
but we still have the hopes
that we can transform into ropes.

Hoping I'll touch somebody's heart
I will continue to write
And hope one day we can unite
To put back up the work of art.