"congregation" poems - Hello Poetry

We wear this city on our feet Planting our roots with each step Our shadows cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak We grow here with the spirit of buildings past, present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance, the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense, spires for steeples, the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles of our feet pounding the pavement, Our congregation seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage They march downtown toward Capitol holding signs for disarmament They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance They move in a blur of faces that become us, Rush at all hours through our veins Cross our hearts and keep us breathing, Moving wearing the city on our minds like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads We assume monk-like appearances in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, We'll wear their dreams at night like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour We'll keep walking and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders under the watch of their heavens, the skyline a glowing testament of every step taken toward someplace higher.

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Apr 9, 2018

Apr 9, 2018 at 7:27 PM UTC

Antinoart

Becoming Raleigh

We wear this city on our feet Planting our roots with each step Our shadows cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over old squares at daybreak We grow here with the spirit of buildings past, present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance, the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense, spires for steeples, the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles of our feet pounding the pavement, Our congregation seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage They march downtown toward Capitol holding signs for disarmament They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance They move in a blur of faces that become us, Rush at all hours through our veins Cross our hearts and keep us breathing, Moving wearing the city on our minds like the greyest pieces of their winter sky and the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads We assume monk-like appearances in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, We'll wear their dreams at night like streetlamps flickering on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour We'll keep walking and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders under the watch of their heavens, the skyline a glowing testament of every step taken toward someplace higher.