Tall buildings, dotted with a grid
Of uniform windows.
Little sets them apart
But the people within.
You watch their silhouettes,
And try to determine their stories.
Are they alone? Are they happy? Are they asleep?
There’s only so much you can draw
From a brief shadow.
But there may be meaning, there may not.
Meaning is what you make it to be.
Lies bordered by dim streetlights.
A telephone box
Stands vacant, serving little purpose.
Another relic of the past.
Perhaps we should hold a funeral
For what once was.
But who has the time?
Concrete fades into dirt, gravel, sand.
It climbs between your toes, up your ankles,
Luring you away
From the city lights.
The waves roll onto the shore,
And you fill your body
With the freshness, crispness of the air.
You hold it, but you know you have to exhale
And let go of the waves,
The cool wind,
This place trapped in time.
You know you have to keep moving.
There is little time
To be still.
To watch strangers dancing in windows,
To gaze upon a distant horizon,
To catch your breath.
Or you will be left behind.
Or you are lost in the crowd.