Gilded, sickly yellow
glowing from a smattering of phosphorescent streetlamps
under homogenous grey skies,
which have finally started to sprinkle rain, after a day's worth of deliberation.
A late night songbird gives one feeble attempt at melody in the distance
and then is silent.
Tip-taps
of droplets
sent from heaven above
as they clatter against plastic car hoods-
to have travelled so many miles, just to terminate there. What grief.
the faint whoosh of engines still on the highway.
People running home,
or running from home,
I can only imagine.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 2:35 PM UTC
Gilded, sickly yellow
glowing from a smattering of phosphorescent streetlamps
under homogenous grey skies,
which have finally started to sprinkle rain, after a day's worth of deliberation.
A late night songbird gives one feeble attempt at melody in the distance
and then is silent.
Tip-taps
of droplets
sent from heaven above
as they clatter against plastic car hoods-
to have travelled so many miles, just to terminate there. What grief.
the faint whoosh of engines still on the highway.
People running home,
or running from home,
I can only imagine.
Request permission to use this poem