forge into the frost of
winter's rough lips and
roam dark streets in search of
lady luck, arm in arm, four footfalls
echo between silent sentinels
soaring the dark sky.
scaffoldings and screen-ins make
poor fit for the wind that
carries with it a desirable desolation in
the land of mechanized monotony.
slip into a place where ghosts and
legends beat their boots and
chemical brothers dial up poison from
under the floorboards hides a chatty
Dickens-like character with a
documenting the days attire and
dreaming handsomely of
strawberry fields and sun-soaked days
hand in hand with a whisper.