(I wrote this sometime during undergraduate school, probably early as I would've been reading Wordsworth at that time. This was "inspired" by Lines, which he wrote while overlooking Tintern Abbey. I put the word inspired in quotation marks as my reflection is less pastoral and more elegaic. )
I sit in thought,
back against brick.
A boisterous blur
of midday traffic pumps
its music through my veins,
dissonant, discordant
with my arcadian memories--
far from this carbonous stew.
back against brick.
A boisterous blur
of midday traffic pumps
its music through my veins,
dissonant, discordant
with my arcadian memories--
far from this carbonous stew.
The avenue's straight blackness
stretches like fingers.
Trees of glass and steel,
reaching for rays of light,
cast hard shadows on the cinderblock--
hard against soft to twist
anxiety to apathy.
stretches like fingers.
Trees of glass and steel,
reaching for rays of light,
cast hard shadows on the cinderblock--
hard against soft to twist
anxiety to apathy.
Cracks cross
the surging pavement
abrasive asphalt,
caustic, stifling smog
I breathe deep, indifferent, alive.
the surging pavement
abrasive asphalt,
caustic, stifling smog
I breathe deep, indifferent, alive.
I look
for a particle of me
in the concrete.
I look
for the signature of God
in the brick.
for a particle of me
in the concrete.
I look
for the signature of God
in the brick.
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