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
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
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