The night sky was a piece of art, sketched
By a thousand eager caresses of the wind and
Painted with tender brushstrokes in the many 
hues of dark blue, sprinkled with white sand.

There she sat cross-legged, bare arms trembling with
Cold (anticipation) --the earth seemed so far away
Suspended on a canvas of concrete hundreds of
Feet in the air, metal bars in decay

Lights dying, fumes dissipating, horizon
Fading--Skyscrapers but a silhouette 
In a backdrop of gray (the silence felt wrong, somehow,
Like fine wine on a picnic mat) 

So she closed her eyes and imagined--
less gray, more blue,
The smell of petrichor, and the humming of birds, and leaves 
glistening with the sheen of morning dew

But she opened them again--
Saw prison bars, and she realised, 
All along she had been listening to a lonely
Melody her mind had devised...

Painting an impossible picture.