The lights glitter overhead
Like sparks
Spells leave behind.
I wonder
And wander
Into the space that men in suits and ties cannot find.
It is quiet here
Where no one goes
But little old me
Who is not so old
(yet)
As utterly free.
The sparks
Feel more like candle wick flames
Flickering
Never hurting me.
The rain painted leaves
Sway gently
To music that makes no sound.
I feel the rhythm.
It seeps into my marrow,
Still my ears hear nothing
And I am stilled.
I do not care for dancing
Tonight
I am still as death.
It is not me
Who takes to the dance floor tonight.
Not when the stage is smaller than my feet.
Here, fairy children dance
In the bushes
With their lithe limbs
They prance
Taunting us Big Folk
To confuse reality with fantasy.
But as I lean my head closer, closer
To see,
The bushes are empty
And it's just the wind playing tricks on me.
YOU ARE READING
Cityscape
PoetryA collection of poems written in the city. Written for city folk who don't quite belong. And for everyone else who fall in between the cracks of 'here' and 'there.'
