Some nights on the roof
could never be replaced
by nights spent anywhere else.
For up here,
high above the frenetic energy,
I and I peer into the soul of the city,
and discover
the endless singularity of the world.
Atman is Brahman.
Everything is everything.
Yeah, nostalgia hits hard
when I see yesterday's
leaves carpet the ground
with the fallen splendor
of time gone by.
What's left this morning
are skeletal trees
combing the light fog.
It was through the mist
that streaks of orange
whisper that Fall has fallen.
Aye, the most mischievous season
is upon us.
At that moment
a spectrum of reds
washed me with wisdom:
Fall is the truth in color.