March 4, 2016


Filed under: Poetry, Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , , , — migueltio @ 12:28 pm

The night ends on a grey drizzly morning                                                                                                                                                          with the light of yesterday sub-planted                                                                                                    by a dim that carries for miles away.

She walks out of her brick laden                                                                                                              doorway                                                                                                                                                           the steps of cement a laborers long ago                                                                                 firmament she looks ahead breathing in                                                                                             the grey morning’s urban scent.

The skies may be dull but in her                                                                                                             eyes                                                                                                                                                               there is no lull no matter how down the day                                                                                      she is always ready always willing to touch                                                                                         her world in her amazing loving way.

The rain she believes is a washing of the                                                                                         world                                                                                                                                                                         of its pain of its downward swirling dread                                                                                        from which will come spring and its wonderful                                                                          growth denying winter’s hold so cold so dead.

Her fedora and her                                                                                                                                      styles                                                                                                                                                             light up many with greetings and smiles                                                                                               as she makes her way to the station’s turnstiles                                                                              the beauty of her face casting light for miles.

She is a poem she is a                                                                                                                                   song in the city where her words can                                                                                                never go wrong in the city where her                                                                                                   love and light last a life long.




  1. i did not read it ;p

    Comment by sharmishtha basu — March 10, 2016 @ 7:19 am

  2. This is beautiful! I especially loved this line:
    “The rain she believes is a washing of the world”

    Comment by Laine Anne Jensen — March 18, 2016 @ 11:21 pm

  3. Beautiful lines 🙂

    Comment by Nitin — April 12, 2016 @ 5:30 am

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