Groundwork Poem by Chance Foreman

Step into the aroma
And witness
The mechanized magic
Making mornings better
Where the bitches
Blending reality, and the dream seem
Into a dark ended tip of obsidian
Cutting through the night,
Dripping the blackest drops of gold
Reflecting the coming dawn
Only to find, the spirit of Venice
Its wavelike essence
Glassy and rough, singing, as it paints itself on the sky
Applauded by that lucky minded, high as time, jack of all trades
Building bridges over burnt dreams
So as to be closer
To that elusive angel, naked as the sunset
Watching over her city
Doing the daily groundwork.