The Age of Observation

What a time to be alive.

Harmonious music on a silk loop

produces words hidden in a fair melody

determined by the mood of my young soul,

artillery drops to my tongue,

weighing it down until the diction slips.

 

The ‘casual smoking’ motion

of whistling swings in central park

fan the roasted aroma of Sweet Nuts

effervescing through dry December air.

 

Fallen leaves along the pitted charcoal path

swell from the sounds of the city.

Grim memories dissipate

like romance novel fantasies.

 

My thoughts drain down my throat, bleeding black ink

through arm veins, dripping feeling to the page,

pouring it smoothly on fuzzy, thin trees.

I bit the curb and lost my bloody teeth;

Now facing reality

I leave behind gruesome dreams.