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On I go,
Through busy streets I walk.
Half asleep,
Subconsciously inspired.
The architecture screams out my name
In many subliminal ways,
Though I am not to blame
For the angels within its inspired walls,
Nor for their lack of flight,
Their endless plight.
I find myself spinning
Without reason,
Reasoning without winning.
I’m trying not to focus,
To see the angels
Within these busy streets.
They glow, I know,
Within the humming beats
Of a shattered heart…
Not quite torn apart.
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At the end of every short story the reader should feel like a cloud has lifted from the face of the moon.
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nyehh