an image faint in the distance
as the sun, red, beats through the clouds.
Before me, the working class awakens,
trudges to an ordinary Monday,
unaffected by the mystery to the horizon.
Standing tall and silent,
under a grey cloudy,
as beacons of prosperity,
of all the great things money can buy.
But the sun outshines it all
in the red bloody beating,
parting the grey with entitlement.
Nobody lives downtown. I used to look forward to the nights my mom stayed at work until midnight and my dad and I would go pick her up. Cool summer night breeze would brush my skin through the car window. And everything was so quiet. I could almost feel the faint buzz of neon signs. All of downtown was mine and mine alone to take in and witness.
I admire your talent for poetry. I wish I could write this well. I feel as though I am either seeing through your eyes or else right next to you. I'm sure it is my similar experiences that make this possible, but we come from such different backgrounds. That, to me, is what makes art so beautiful--its ability to allow individuals to relate from different worlds and to speak to each other in the same language. This is my favorite of your blog entries. :)
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