As I stood,
on the wet street
in solitude, behind
the external lens
in my hands,
I could hear the passing
of painted, ticking clock hands
as they whispered and waved
through static noise
from precipitation
around me–
I wondered,
if a past soul
of mine, contributed
to a time of white flight,
when a financial crisis
sprawled like a crack
on a windshield, from a chip
in glass, created
by another battle
between politicians.
My present soul,
resides,
in Heidelberg,
where
stories of others
become painted dots
on buildings
climbing walls
like spiders,
their painted eyes
against the stark white,
doted house
seeing all.
Nov 30, 2019
Nov 30, 2019 at 2:49 PM UTC
As I stood,
on the wet street
in solitude, behind
the external lens
in my hands,
I could hear the passing
of painted, ticking clock hands
as they whispered and waved
through static noise
from precipitation
around me–
I wondered,
if a past soul
of mine, contributed
to a time of white flight,
when a financial crisis
sprawled like a crack
on a windshield, from a chip
in glass, created
by another battle
between politicians.
My present soul,
resides,
in Heidelberg,
where
stories of others
become painted dots
on buildings
climbing walls
like spiders,
their painted eyes
against the stark white,
doted house
seeing all.
Inspired by trip I took to Detroit back in October... it's a work in progress.