Imagine life without the possibility of poetry.
In the lackluster existence
we stroll,
carriages left empty in the park,
briefcases exhaling
a swirl of work,
papers painting the sky,
and we watch.
Comfortably disengaged,
our eyes rest
on the piercing shades of grey,
faded mortar and concrete,
buttressing bystanders
still waxing the windows
on the train that brought them here.
They, too, are looking for the words,
selected syllables
swinging like gardenias' sweetness,
desperate for the air to swell
with childhood smiles,
blades of softness,
and moments of beauty
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