In caverns below the city
lives a beast, reviled.
It's fierce and ancient and patient
-n- won't come up unless riled.
When you read of disappearance:
kidnapped or ran away?
It might be neither one, rather,
it's breached the light of day.
So, if this beast is not one you
wish to look in the face,
When you take to song and dance:
don't stomp or over-Bass!
The forest looks painted
with dabs of bright color,
a pointillist mural
of the leaves' last hurrah.
Soon, it'll turn twiggy,
and sing desolation,
and invite the fog in
to soften sharp lines.
Then one day you'll notice
leaves glowing in sunlight.
Their green will be golden
from warm yellow rays.
The maturing forest
will darken its greenness,
turning to sober tones
that blot out the light.
It rains for days on end in this city.
The people peer out under umbrellas.
Nothing 's washed clean; it's soggy & gritty
and brutal as a Kafka novella.
The streets aren't light, but nor are they true dark.
The light isn't absent, just sapped of vim.
The gray that remains is like Fall in Denmark.
Relentless rain is relentlessly grim.
The gutters are glutted with murk and sludge.
The rushing waters can't sweep it all clean.
All work 's drudgery and all walks a trudge,
and there's no sparkle in the pavement sheen.
Do some "sing in the rain?" No, they just mock --
their umbrella flipped out and w/ sodden socks.