Serene, almost angelic,
the lights of the city attend
upon lumbering behemoths
shrilly screeching displeasure;
they say
that nothing is certain,
that nothing man dreams or ordains
long endures his command.
Here the streetlights that flicker
and those burning steady
seem one,
from a distance.
Descend,
they abruptly part ways,
so that nothing is one
which at times does not suddenly blend
into garish insignificance
in the familiar alleyways,
in the white neon flash and the billboards of convenience.
And man seems the afterthought of his own brilliance
as we thunder down the enlightened runways.
Originally published by The Aurorean
