
Urban Sprawl
It’s getting darker and the orange light gleams off the wet pavement, now I’m seeing things.
The apparition of a bus hisses past me, the streetlights splatter shadows out in front of me. Evening drunkenly sips up the last of the day's energy, as the sun summits the b-side of the mountainscape. City streams fringed by buildings
inch ever closer,
narrowing my escape.
Hurling me towards extinction.
And yet, I do not go, I want to end where I began.
So, into Spectre I stare, it’s not my time.
Like clockwork, I meet myself over and over again. As the cicadas meet the May air.
Anemoia soaks through my tee shirt, like sweat on a summer day, stowed away until the days feel real and fast. I miss the prairie plain, where the air is dry and the sky is cracked open by thunder.
How I long for chinook to pick me up and carry me home, back to the strangers waiting for me in memory. When I hang off this earth, I wonder if my ancestors are watching me flail. These streets are too long to walk alone on.
Where are the hands of those who have come before?