City
In the stifling
August heat,
above the city,
the history,
the canyons
of forgotten places,
and beyond the empty
names,
the emblematic idiom
of pointing fingers,
the high rise
of buildings,
the tipping
and tearing,
of a restless wind
cut,
sharp,
into invisible pieces,
a spirit arises,
from beneath
the metallic fingers,
of high
construction cranes.
For there is
an undiscovered
an empty sky,
high and above,
the spiralling wings
of life
as three buzzards
drift,
turn and call
turn and call
with eyes of steel
upon the stupefied traffic,
strangled,
stopped,
deep in the concrete
rivers locked and frozen
in a grimace
of anger
of fear
and far again
below,
Winter pounces.
Waiting.
Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com
