City’s timpanic bowl
Slurs traffic tides
Brushes copper sun
Pins it to thin sky
North winds lay low
I stand, amongst boughs
Where bare trees wait
Highrises twinkling
As chrome moon floats
A familiar tune
Reluctant to retreat
Notes dangle at my feet
As if fading out to sea
Hushing rise and fall
Of humanity shifts
Riding another wave

© 2014 S. Michaels
Light Years

image: freehdwalls.net

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