Rudderless

Rudderless, I set out to cross the currents solely in darkness while the night faded, and the stone jungle awoke before I did. Every day is born in a shade of grey that birds should never scatter across the Earth.

No, they shouldn’t.

I notice memory fading fragments as it forms clouds laid like a shroud over the quickened heartbeat of the avenues, tracing precisely the tail of smoke leaning over the soiled architecture, tirelessly, trying carefully to shift the colour of hatred into love. But it is imperative to set pure colours aside in order to truly understand all their contrasts and affinities.

Where I stand is still not night.

And everything here is too opaque and heavy in matter.

But I shall be a wandering sentinel, not only through the alleyways of those numbed-out geniuses above, but also within the shimmering web that holds me, cynically, in the city alight in the distance, where love stubbornly refuses to die entirely.

And the love that has not yet defined itself is like the melody of an uncertain draft:
it lays its heart adrift, where the future is already yesterday. Elusive and latent, like the sleepwalking chord of a piano that withdrew itself in the brief hours before its time.

The city awakens. I hear its cosmos in its voice.
The only voice.

This time human.
This time utopian.