The paneled window shows me
a city lulled to sleep,
at its peak
that somehow cannot keep
the city lights from shining
and the rain from falling
The water embroiders their lives with colour
as it touches upon their lips.
Just now, as it seemed that it couldn’t get duller
the streets grow wider, wilder and taller
and take patient, obedient sips -
they’re glossy now
shining and swimming
and every light that you see
lurks tenfold down there
as if an illusion
of beautiful uncertainty.
It’s the time of the cats, the monsters and burglars, the time when we all go to sleep.
Except that we don’t and that we never did,
not as we are now and not as a kid
for who could blame us for not counting sheep,
when there are cats and monsters and burglars to see?
We’d rather be out there
join them on their quest
and what keeps us from entering the damp, starry nest
in the middle of sky fall