Thursday, July 11, 2013


When running round the city it's impossible to note,
the early morning sunrise or the history we wrote,

Upon the very pavement that terrains beneath our feet,
We're often quite preoccupied with suffocating heat.

We have to catch the subway, stay at work late, walk the dog.
On weekends it's imperative we slumber like a log.

With tunnel vision, blindly texting on our smarty phone,
A city full of people yet we walk around alone.

The flowers peaking from the cracks get trampled in neglect,
Musicians playing songs we oft annoyingly reject.

But everywhere are pieces of a magic mystery,
The clues of pulchritudinous anomalies to free.

As lifetime quickly wanes it might be nice before our death,
To calmly say whoa, pony, look around, and take a breath.

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