Pressure builds upon my temple,
Like constant rain on rooftops scattered.
The lamps of life draw conversations out of Windows,
Which pierce the night in constant motion.

A hum from the street builds in lonely hours,
illuminates from the pressing weather in decadence.
Perusing it's subtle cry for more in each step,
Breaking off branches too far up to reach.

I watch the light peer from the evergreen,
With rolling smoke from Windows.
The warmth of it sends heavy breathing,
A lapse in function when all else doesn't work.

One day the view of tracks and country winds,
Will see a broken man with fault in trying.
But the less known way brings the only comfort,
The rack to dry this urge to leave.