My silhouette rouses with starlings
in yawning rays of day.
Soft lavender wafts
through streets of glass and
dull gunmetal gray.
The drunks are all still comatose,
stuffed in their high-rise homes.
Baristas stumble bleary-eyed
towards cafes shuttered closed.
At this hour, the city is
something to behold.
Human ingenuity,
ambition cast in gold.
Still, there’s little blooming,
and liquor slicks the walks,
still though the all-consuming
tirade of the clock.
I feel it less now in this hour,
what creeps pervasively-
That pressing, pulling,
pinning strain of
shared depravity.
pm poetry 