The Burning Canopy

Another attempt.

In the city that never sleeps,

there reside people that never wake.

Their minds blind to reason,

their souls manufactured and fake.

In the city that never sleeps,

there stands a man under its burning canopy.

Slouched in despair and turmoil,

his soul adrift in an endless sea.

He implores the sky for directions and signs.

With its canopies eternally afire,

the city that never sleeps closes its eyes.

The skies are silent in the moment most dire.

In the city that never sleeps,

she reaches out into the gelid night.

In her palm, she sees an ember-

a single tiny warm light.

She wraps her fingers around the ember.

She closes her eyes and remembers,

that in the city that never sleeps,

there exists the hopeful that leap.

In the city that never sleeps,

an insomniac rouses in rue.

He storms off into the blazing streets,

for he had a fleeting dream about his life-

his short miserable accursed life.

He screams in all his bitterness.

He is incapable of peaceful slumber,

in this wretched city that never sleeps.

In the city that never sleeps,

there is a sweet voice singing a song.

A song of souls under the burning canopy.

A song of the masses of living ironies.

It is a song sung mellifluously,

of what is and will never be.

Reviews

[jaywolf1738]

I really like your poem. Each detail had me wanting to read more