New York City has been a fantasy.
There are millions settled within its limits.
They breathe a concert of reality and illusion
And exhale allusions of Renaissance.
Naturally unexpected culture is intrinsic,
Loving homes carved into high metal is the custom.
Labor tires itself to sleep on the fortieth story.
The city ceaselessly fights for that beauty.
Intent beautifully sings in every native’s vernacular.
Decency and arrogance seem equally effortless.
Inane thoughts can flee from the city eventfully,
And endless meaning will never leave its mother’s side.
Incredulity is an unconvincing invention.
Utopia only exists in plain and promising doubt.
The city might be a warm content for a refugee.
Forgive the children that discover that it is novel.
The pioneer is a forgotten man,
and he walks the unbeaten path.
He guides himself with falling stars
and clears his mind under the sunset.
His articles are tarnished with dust,
and the evenings have become colorless.
These days move him further from the city,
and make his dirty nails matter less.
My sights chance a look up at the sky. At this moment,
every bit of sound and heat between here and there is
falling out of the sky in a dazzling streak.
A second passes. On the next, the din reaches out, and a
tremor shakes apart everywhere. My hands reach out for the
whirling flash of an instant. Just as soon, the elusive ballet of
light in front of my eyes begins fading to half as many shades.
My eyes crank shut to find the show on the covers of my eyes.
A ballet of little, blue memories dance on my private screen to
remind me that the sky crumpled and broke until it fell with a
terrible of crack. This recalling finds a dimmed and flickering end.
There isn’t the trembling anymore. The last bit of memory of the blinding
radiance flees. As it is gone, the night returns to that certain purple.