Bricks set in shame
and how those clouds danced above,
the precipitate descends.
The buildings feign perspiration.
The streets, oiled in appearance,
look at her with glib nuance,
slim smiles that still haunt her.

Home, such as a dead cave,
bringing with it lethargy,
tethered to the curtains;
hiding, spying, deceiving,
for the city, holds her shock.
Wet on the glass, eyes meet ghost,
sweating monoliths of the avenue,
they never answer to her tears.