...Poetry...

A Welling Hope

So many high rises reach up to block the
smog-choked sky that they cannot be
counted from this vantage.

The pall of gray stretches on as far as do the buildings.
An occasional charcoal-yellow light bleeds feebly from
slate windows.

Cement and asphalt, weather-worn, blend,
barely discernible; only a chipped curb
it's rise minuscule by the surrounding edificae
provides a formless division. Cracks scurry along the sidewalk like
asymmetrical spider webs.

And here, in brilliant defiance of
the oppressive environmental pallor
from a broken-legged arachnid-looking weed in
a tiny crack on a bleak sidewalk
springs forth a flower...

jMc aka Cygnus

Slailnte, folks.

C.