Slick and dark,
These empty streets,
It smells like asphalt
And the wind makes cosmic tendrils
Of the air.

In twilight hour
The city grows opulent
The stars blinking
Red, Yellow, and Green
Patterns for endless time.

Whispers
And the Whisperers
Are the coils of Winter
Cold and confiscating to
The natural hum of presence.

This solitude
Is the prescription
For habitual dreamers
A decadent space
For webs of all size.