You do not hear it
The lone has a singing
Like silken threads of the wind
When it walks through the city
Its robes draping
Over walls and as shadows
Darkening the noise
Our legs dangling,
We breathe in smoke
Dust and traffic talk
Nothing is beautiful but we stay
Nothing is as we had fancied
Everything gentle slinks away
Revolted and charitable
And we run our fingers
Along jagged concrete edges
Waiting as if
For something
Waiting as if
For something
Sorrow comes
A tender companion
And leads the night away to obscurity
I dream of laughter
Tumbling as pebbles into terror
Clumsy and crude, bluntly myself
I stumble through myself
Searching as if
For something
Doors open and torches are lit
The labyrinth unwinds perhaps
Or starts to, slow and sleek
As if in tune to the song
And almost the spectre of reticence
Is cast aside for rebellion

But then, the morning comes
And I am a tyrant again