Nocturne Blues

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a virtual walk through my home city of Denver. Hope you like it!

Submitted: October 27, 2013

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Submitted: October 27, 2013

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Dusk

I put on my second skin to take a step southward in the

midst of this nightly surrender, the golden embers

atop the peaks gradually smothered by

the advancing black velvet sky

and the air

positively crackles with electricity,  I

take the usual path beneath the bridge, the cavernous underpass before

straight into the belly of the beast, my heart a few paces behind

antique walls lined

with modern cave drawings

decidedly promiscuous

women, obscure verse, the eyes of God alike

echoes

of cars on walls reminisce in the reverberating tones

of Bohemian voices.

Upon resurfacing, the highway bridge

presents a dichotomy

an austere rusted railing, the

sole sense of order, a boundary

between

Sound and Silence.

I cross in the manner of a funeral procession, glancing only occasionally at  

the languid black waters below, knowing well

that if my eyes be held

too long, then I may chance  

upon seeing the syrup-like tentacles

reach

for my ankles. Beyond the river lies

the abandoned rail yard

whose tracks I'm sure go nowhere at all

I once tried to follow the mess of lines, but finding nothing

coherent, I  

walked on instead.  The city stands before

regal and imposing. I pass

the construction sites, the gargantuan cranes

twisted metal trees, and I ask

aloud the miracle of physics that makes

them stand just so

there is a pulse emanating from the cobblestones, pervading

the air like smoke

resonating

in the space directly behind one's eyes

each of the restaurants keeps its door open, and upon passing each portal, one is  

instantly

bathed in nostalgic company, raucous laughter, interrupted  

conversation, the tinny

clinking

of glass bottles and silverware against ceramic

while the lipsticked waitresses all stand outside to smoke

The haze catches fire and burns incandescently

to ward off the chill of October,

there is a strange claustrophobia to such openness

as if one could be as easily

suffocated by noise as by space

behind

me, a

high-heeled

woman

walks with

her lover. How rhythmic and purposeful the strike of her shoes

against the pavement, a steady pacer for this city's

beating heart.  

All the other eyes shift

neurotically, I

break form, my lips parted slightly to revel in the sensation

of internal hollowness that accompanies the strange motion of

looking

upwards  

instead

 


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