The City is a feverish flourishing
mind, restless, sometimes
the turbulent kind.
The City seems mostly alive at night.
And roars with its jaws wide open
showing its teeth of light.
The City is a Magician
in black cloak clapping his large gloved hands
for the final prestige and the master stroke
when suddenly the whole of the City bows then stands...
alive with noise, beams of light, snaking
traffic in the arterous streets make the City
more living, more human not concrete, invention, machine.
The City has Gorgon Orwellian eyes
that reach their tentacles into your pale room at night.
Even if you curtain the windows from the bright,
the light looms, malingers and peers in.
The City will try to convince its glare
is stars and beautiful brilliance.
But everyone here knows that
Its long strands of light
eventually burn hot,
burn out cool white.
Though the City preaches resilience.
The City shouts, sometimes sneers.
Demands ransoms and payoffs in limbs.
We are to It the Peons to kneel to its jeers.
Even a tree cannot grow to its whims.
Not in the City.
The City looks upon trees as accessories.
Limbs are culled, hacked to Its needs,
the trees near my apartment are older and braver and wickedly wise.
They've thwarted the City, the magician and the many eyes.
They were placed carefully long ago so they'd meet
No one touches them but the Wind and her storms.
I'm tucked in the trees (laughing)on the high front third floor.
We are a fortress together.
Against The City.
Copyright January 8, 2013 All Rights Reserved by this Writer
Melissa A Howells ///Meloo from her Tilt-a-World
Written with a febrile Mind, in memory of Minneapolis