when I sit in bed listening to the sounds of the city outside my window
I feel like I owe it a poem, creativity, something beautiful
to eternalize it's beauty in someway
the sounds of cars speeding through the bridge at 3:34am
souls repelled and pulled by the never-ending enigma that is the city
the heels of woman clacking across the cement, finding their ways home
the white noise in the rare moment that silence invades
this all silently screams to me, "paint me like a French girl"
I'm a muse, waiting to be picked upon
and nothing will ever be good enough

people passing by and
cars driving past with
city wind in my hair and
cooler air as
the sun sets and
the world gets dimmer.
you could absorb the whole city from
     a sidewalk bench.

I found quiet reflection
in the city tonight,
quieter than any dirt road
we have back home.

Bus brakes squealed
over bar patrons carousing.
Life in a snapshot vacuum,
solitude in the sound.

I found myself on a
stone wall tonight,
I could see through
the years to the end.

Footsteps w/ghosts
mingled w/ those present.
Life in self-discovery,
comfort in realization.