Brush by the cityscape in the small hours.
Where passers by cannot see me observe it.
My lights are its decoration; the silence ours.

The visions past the water age differently.
It was there when I was born.
It will persist when I pass on silently.

Pleasantries are exchanged twixt those among it.
Such pleasantries are just that, for something so seemingly immortal.
It too shall pass on as I will one day.

Beauty is just beheld in what it has seen of me in such constancy.