| | ChicagoThree lights, divided by three flights. It's night, and morning waits like an impatient lover, separated by four restless hours. There is a lonely romance in the silence, in the cold, a romance pregnant from wedlock, and she bars sleep from me till her story is borne by pen. I met my muse again, her footsteps heavy in the fog, two years since I've glimpsed her face. There is no remembrance in her eyes, as if we are meeting for the first time again. She haunts me, from city to city, and she calls me, and I have returned. She wanders the city streets solemn, and her eyes are gold.
And the words fall, for the first time, again. |
| | Posted 11/27/2007 12:29 AM - 14 views - 0 comments
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