Random half heard words entwine
And curl skywards like smoke
As the veneer clouds pause
In their brooding surveillance
Of the cold commuters below.

Sharpened streetlamps try to cut
Through the filth that has
Long covered this town.

And the vast moon listens...

It hears countless mobile phones
Spitting out overpriced ditties,
And the quietness of tired soldiers
Heading homeward.

It watches the clouds, and examines
The strange way they are scribbled
Across the ever darkening
Blue canvas, soon to be divided
Into bitesize pieces by the stars
As they reveal themselves to
Everyone below.

It surveys the cold stone
And the impersonal concrete
Which to us are so familiar,
But to it, an inconceivable choice.

And here I am, too small
For the quiet moon to notice me
As I weave my way home
By a way worn with use,
Watching the static clouds
As they become darker
And more ominous.

This false night sky
With its lack of stars
Is a different darkness, though,
And I wonder if the clouds
Are simply mirrors of the
Darkness in my soul.

Whether they are or not,
I doubt that the moon
Will ever see fit to see them
That way.

02/27/2002

Posted on 02/27/2002
Copyright © 2025 Richard Vince