In this monotone washed out city,
The traffic moves slowly,
But still too fast to **** time,
Under a desolate ever-grey sky.
In such lack of color,
These days lose their meaning.
And laughter gives way to silence,
As bitter cold seeps in,
Through the cracked door frames and slush-speckled windows;
Through too-pale limbs and never-enough layers.
It settles only in bodies
Shuddering from more than cold air
Home among the dirty-snow-lined streets,
And lonely leafless trees;
two-thousand miles from the sea.
The memory fades like melting snow.
Dead are the places that once killed time.
And lost are the ideas that enabled a hope,
That this place was ever more than a shell,
Or these bodies were more than cold.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
In this monotone washed out city,
The traffic moves slowly,
But still too fast to **** time,
Under a desolate ever-grey sky.
In such lack of color,
These days lose their meaning.
And laughter gives way to silence,
As bitter cold seeps in,
Through the cracked door frames and slush-speckled windows;
Through too-pale limbs and never-enough layers.
It settles only in bodies
Shuddering from more than cold air
Home among the dirty-snow-lined streets,
And lonely leafless trees;
two-thousand miles from the sea.
The memory fades like melting snow.
Dead are the places that once killed time.
And lost are the ideas that enabled a hope,
That this place was ever more than a shell,
Or these bodies were more than cold.
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