The sun is now behind trees
and the trees hide behind the powerlines.

My tree, small as it might be still blooms each spring.
I have only ghost who listen to my shoulder pain,
men dont cry but purchase graves.

Acetylene across the sky
Vibrant constructions forced atop toward eye.
Rise rude ruby colored sun.

Millions of words being spoken,
electric bills half paid the city, a strange construction.

memories of cracked windows,
and small tenements with no privacy.

The metropolitan lights
like some ongoing hallucination.
Mounted machinery, categories with insidious intent,
coffee shops full of early workers with their heads buried earth metals.

Rome Reborn.