Coasting past nature's giants,
I muse about all they could tell me.
Their leaves holding the energy of
100 years' eclipses and smoldering summers.
The day the sun was silent.
Roots drinking up the essence of our ancestors.
The last handful of dirt, sprinkled mournfully.
Rough, weathered skin forever holding two names together.
A boy carving initials into her bark with a shaky hand.
The wisest creatures the world could offer,
Living scrapbooks.
Listen closely,
For the wind that shakes their arms in a waltz
Is not simply a whistle, but a secret.

A man reclines on 30th street's rickety sign.
He takes long drags from a dwindling cigarette,
Smoke melding to the crisp night air.
Pools of reflection,
Flickering in unison with the dimmed neon signs,
Abandoned dreams.
The veins of our city bleeding red with the misfortune Of failed artists,
Of profitable businessmen,
Of single mothers holding on by the skin of their Teeth.
Everyone, looking for a chance here,
Looking for a purpose,
An amicable place to drift.
As for the man blowing the scent of tobacco and Peppermint over this concrete maze,
Well, he is the city.

The shutters are shut,
The blinds, closed.
If we see what we feel,
What we see is real.

Strides that match,
Measures of love.
Colors blend,
Nobody would judge.

An angsty, grey sky,
Heav'n's rays shine through.
People notice the sunshine,
Fingertips drinking up the dew.

His loving embrace around her,
Or him.
We're not truly free,
While equality is seen as sin.

The shutters are shut,
The blinds, closed.
If we see what we feel,
What we see is real.