The Park On 16th
I want something to scream aloud,
And I want there to be someone who'll listen.
On the edge of a great compass I sit,
Waiting to be pointed onward.
Confronted with a maddening stillness,
I only hear movement from afar.
The clouds have turned an unearthly orange,
And a glow of forgotten metaphors warms
My spine as I write in fading light.
An echoing train hisses in the distance,
And I continue my journey home.
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