If we were the mirror of our creation
                and not made in perfect silhouettes.

Then we aren't the creation of perfection,
                           as were flawed beyond our sell by date.

Then that which made us is imperfect in its design.
                  So not omnipotent,
  flawed in its own blueprint.

And so just another pebble in
A dry pond where wishes die.

these silhouettes strolled across, through the creaking bridge,
walked on it as if they didn't notice the noise,
stepped on it like they knew which path to take next,
but one thing they knew was that they had to cross over
without knowing it would break and took them down
and fed them to the raging waves below.

Within every pen
                       Stroke
Lies a formation
                Of emotion.

That differs with every
Moment
                 it silhouettes
On the page.

the soft glow of

twilight

caused by

the refraction

of my love.

as the sun dips back

to wherever it came from

the features of trees

seem to soften into

silhouettes

until i am left only

with shadows of how

i used to love.

I find my finger tracing silhouettes of strangers

As I tap my foot and stare outside the glass pane in front of me

Onto the street where passersby greet the crisp morning air

With knit scarves and hats and boisterous jackets and saddlebags at the hip,

Ready to ride into town and run out the sheriffs in charge of the show

On West End and Broadway.
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Flurries of snow greet the ground with thunderous applause

As I sip my brew, intertwining fingers with my mug like lovers

And tracing silhouettes of strangers standing at the corner

With my free hand.
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The silent footsteps remind me of the cars at Piccadilly Circus on the first snow of the season,

And how all rhyme and reason belong to silhouettes of strangers that walk past the storefronts and stoplights and billboards and Barclay's

Instead of the steady sound of tires screeching and stopping traffic

In this picturesque place.
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A winter's day in New York is a lot like a winter's day in London;

Silhouettes of strangers are outlined by the fingers of fresh-faced people sipping coffee in a corner café.

They tap their feet and wait for a silhouette to escape the bellowing silence of the snow and the roar of the barren roads.

All they want is to intertwine their fingers with another,

Instead of a lukewarm mug.

one two three with fire
heavy with your memory
thick silhouettes peer
&
the sax next door sings
you, blown away by fusion
of my tongue to you

silhouettes running down brick walls like

flashfloods clinging to ***** mascara
where starstruck children run in mud
call me the eve of original sin
for the things I have seen and the places I've been

for ridges of ink etched in landscapes of skin
for heartbeats in hoodies saying lest we forget

in the valley of the shadow of death
they rest with hands crossed over their chests