Week-End In Venice Poem by Peter Strugnell

There's a suspect beauty to these city streets,
you can see the cracks if you stand too close,
trying to avoid that our eyes should meet,
the city of mirrors our ill-suited host.

The white swan of cities slumbers in it's nest,
she's the dispassionate witness to our demise,
we assume our role as the unwanted guests,
no bells ring beneath the bridge of sighs.

A myriad of vessels dance to our masquerade,
in a labyrinth of waterways and shuts,
silver & gold diffuses as the light begins to fade,
a gondola's bow through the still water cuts.

Staring at our shoes, staring at our laces,
there's love at every corner but not for us,
Venice, good grief! of all the places,
when all you have is tears and dust.