Within My Manhattan

In the city I never sleep in,
I walk the avenues
on white crosswalk rope bridges
to reach concrete jungles
built ground up from steel and stone.

This jungle, I roam, people play with their personage,
searching for new homes in selfhood.
Wandering aimlessly, scheming unintentionally
for the one resolution, conversations aroused.

Here white noise hisses
but, I don’t get a good glimpse of its fumes.
Temper tantrums mangle
beneath the conglomerated gray.
Parrot pigeons eats measly bits scattered about.
There isn’t any space for thunderstorms,
where smog shakes amethyst hues.

The stars are seated at low level.
Though skyscraper heights
can’t meet eyes of Tasmanian devils.

Central Park—
is middle haven;
inland ecosystem divine.
Foliate leaves sprout
and fountains shoot
clear diverted lines.

Why do I bother living suffocated—
burdened by the discolored monotonous?
Shrunken trees feel my agony. They get me inside and out.
Except they can’t uproot—
dreaded dismal doubt.

My mind wavers above the canopy,
higher than Belvedere Castle.


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