Prague Poem by Daniel Y.

My dreams are a Dorian canvass,
framed by an amateur’s paint.
The cobbling stones dance
in the morning beams,
and the river below,
is like glass.

Midas cross,
and midas crown,
with rusted green bodies.
The statues hold their salutes,
as the procession begins to unwind.
A disheveled orchestra,
is twisting around the labyrinthine streets;
the crowds move about with a Brownian Motion.
Begin their dining in dungeons and caverns for treats.
Strange pastries, with cinnamon, line the roads.
Those impoverished, sit in divine reverence.
And foreign tongues wander senseless.
Wall-tagging gives a human touch.
The ensconced buskers with
a washboard drummer,
fancy themselves a
miniature opera.
A live gallery.
What a city, this!
How bad would it be
to be trapped inside? To look
at the eternal sky with enchantment.
The trichrome palate becoming so familiar
Like the rose-tinted panes of an empty cathedral.