Poetry

City Scape

The cities reflect me as I stand on the edge,

cliff nose to window. They would be castles

in the air, if I didn’t look down

to see the miles below where eyes are open,

ogling until the soil, until the grave.

They have the scent of sweet rot,

that candy cane gutter pile left

for the elves in high viz jackets

(that render them invisible to the streets and suits);

underpaid, overworked, and tired – so tired.

And still those glassy screens profess

fresh lilies, crisp and bred to perfection.

Poetry

Fire Dance

Around the corner I spot your flames,

little blue flickers, seeming tamed.

But should a whisper, snide and bold

from the tower whence they hold

the power to make all decisions

interfere with your mission

or threaten the one you hold dear,

I know you will instill them with mortal fear.

Your flames will rise up, acrid, molten

and in an instant completely engulf them.

I worry, not for their well being,

but its effect on you I’m seeing.

This radioactive surge you have

may drain you with its grab

and all I can do is hold out my hand,

and hope, hope

you’ll rise up, scar-less, from the spent ground.