There is a consistency to a good silent cry. There are tears and words, lost for reasons. Heaves, sighs and deep breaths in... And out. Time cut short, time can take so long, in the dark, when the sounds, from the streets never cease. Not the occasional barking dog, but the frequent fraudulent sounds of distant cries. Of lonely strangers, strap hangers lost and afraid. Off the road, off the path of traditional piety. Do you sense the time passing, in the dark, with the songs of the dead or the lost? The time crawls towards the corner sewer where the hidden cultures are celebrating another suburban miracle with acorns and left over rain water, toasts made. Love missionaries tramp the air as broken hearts scatter across the floors, the curbs, the asphalt littered with blood, sweat and tears. Life is filmed, inconsistently, from a balcony overlooking Union Square, a pigeon eye view of life's broken warriors, arrows, guns, no bows, no bullets. Cold air coming in from the river on the east side of the island, where the giant eagle once landed and lives were saved. Songs, poems, plays, soliloquies, beggars and lovers using words to change the courses of time. But the night drags on as the water flows against the curb into the sewer, into the champagne glasses raised in a toast to... Life? Love? Health? Auld Lang syne? Long lost friends, long lost ideas, hopes and clarity. Ruminations, thunderstruck, clouded over and shrouded into a dark corner. With incessant voices, from another time, same place. Open doors, frozen windows and shadows across the floor. A newborn baby is crying, snowless winter evening, nothing to show for the cold still night. I got this scar above my eye, you can touch it if you'd like. I got this scar above my eye, you can heal it with your touch. Prayers, like silent cries, is it only a wall or is it something more? An evening, a love song, a dance all alone. An abscess within, cross the aisle to the right, eyes wide open, hair tiered in colors black and gray, a cup of tea to help fulfill the promises of... Something. Echoes in the streets, words, whispered, words shouted and other words sung. Words written, pushed into the wall.... #monday #poemInstagram

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