Quiet streets Tall buildings, dotted with a grid Of uniform windows. Little sets them apart But the people within. You watch their silhouettes, And try to determine their stories. Are they alone? Are they happy? Are they asleep? There’s only so much you can draw From a brief shadow. But there may be meaning, there may not. Meaning is what you make it to be.
Black pavement Lies bordered by dim streetlights. A telephone box Stands vacant, serving little purpose. Another relic of the past. Perhaps we should hold a funeral For what once was. But who has the time?
Concrete fades into dirt, gravel, sand. If only. It climbs between your toes, up your ankles, Luring you away From the city lights. The waves roll onto the shore, And you fill your body With the freshness, crispness of the air. You hold it, but you know you have to exhale And let go of the waves, The sand, The cool wind, This place trapped in time. You know you have to keep moving.
There is little time To be still. To watch strangers dancing in windows, To gaze upon a distant horizon, To catch your breath. Keep moving, Or you will be left behind. Keep moving, Or you are lost in the crowd.