The State of the Empire



In the city that never sleeps,

No one can hear you scream.

Eight million people,

Eyes wide shut,

Eight million cogs in the machine

Of the Empire State of Mind,

Eight million human beings,

Each marching to a different drum;

It’s a distinctive piece of music,

But there is no separate peace to be had,

Just the silence that falls

In light of the rise of the Empire,

Just the quiet, horrible sound

Of eight million people

Howling their sorrows to the moon,

Hailing from the greatest city on Earth,

All going great distances

In the name of liberty,

And the freedom to be blind, deaf,

And utterly indifferent

To one another’s cries.


Pressed Flowers



I can still see you,

Pressed paper-thin

Between the pages of my life,

Faded and half-forgotten,

Flowers spared the frost

Only to spend the rest of eternity

Fragile and fitting imperfectly

Within the leaves of a former forest.


I can still see you,

Softly lit and spirit-like,

Spiraling through the city of my memory,

A brightness dancing across those dim and dismal years,

Skirts lifting as you spin,

The veil of the years that has risen between us

Casting the whole scene in a magic light,

Not quite poetry,

Nor quite perfection,

But something approaching

The one, or the other.