Bronx Corner

Shading grey soups barren tree-shapes

Standing sentinel, creation

Poking from perpetual hardness

Of brick and stone and block.

It’s through this scope we move,

We stride, we think, as searching,

Staring—even keeping watch.

CHORUS: Yet not quite hope, not quite peace.

Space built for life to breathe;

But what—with false air?

And words. Words, words, words… (to nothing).

CHORUS: Endless words.

Crying, seeking resonance with something solid.

“Does anyone see, want, love…me?

Never mind. LEAVE ME ALONE!

CHORUS: Empty, Still.

But wait—my voice is yours, then, maybe then perhaps we charge?

CHORUS: Ah—leaving self seldom wins, when it’s “new” we really seek.

So just keep moving, moving, moving. Dodge the Real.

Cover, faint, roll. Anything to shut the Light out.

CHORUS: Yet the Light remains, remains, remains… (to nothing).

Mar 2019