The street lights kick in,
a pinkish hue,
some artificial moonlight,
in the fast darkening blue.

Only cars rush by,
cars and brave people,
back from work, their home a church,
their satellite dish, a steeple.

And here I find myself,
entombed in caffeine,
paint pages with words,
yet know not what they mean.

I sit in my sorrow,
and I sit in my haste,
to not disuse my emotion,
to not let this feeling go to waste.

And all that comes to my mind,
is to conjure a rhyme,
to garnish my words,
like liquor laced with lime.

Oh, innumerable streets,
with your innumerable lives,
each person a pattern
of what fate contrives.

There's just not enough time,
to scale these peaks,
truth far too elusive
to ever care to seek.

So I shall just stare into darkness,
in this coffee shop glow,
and chronicle this world
that sits at the window.