Monday, June 8, 2009


With a drooping jaw and a downcast stare,
History laces his stubble.
He has seen and he has heard.
It has been imagined.

Scuffed leather shoes formed to his toes,
Hands deep in his pockets, cigarette in his mouth,
And he walked into the pale shattered light.
Was he fleeing from a woman? Or maybe a man?
As the immense towers shot through the sky,
Tainting it’s aura with gray dirty stone,
The man simply sighed.
It has been imagined.

An accordion bounces notes through the streets,
A Parisian grins at the stranger,
Now on a bicycle with a dusty coat on his back.
An endless crowd of faces part for him,
Swiftly turning from the heart of the city,
Hiding from the shade and stepping into the sun.
It has been imagined.

A place of ice,
A faery nation of white and pale blonde,
The man with dark hair sits on a bench,
With a ragged dog at his side.
He would not dream of tainting the clean air with tobacco,
Plus, his fingernails were finally clean.
A chill broke his thoughts.
It has been imagined.

Nearly twenty years before,
With curls to his jaw,
He stepped off of iron and onto foreign land
For the first time.
With no exotica, he was puzzled.
Now he runs, wanders and searches
For the place he created as a boy.
It has been imagined.

1 comment:

shana said...

i like the "it has been imagined" lines a great deal-- and tainting the clean air with tobacco. keep 'em comin!