I let my thoughts echo on the front page
resonating through the years
even sounding clearly
all my screaming as a preteen
barely reaching to your ears.
If love was like time
in planetary confessions,
call me the late bachelor
bringing roses when you're dead.
The mice run into the hillsides
escaping the trampling of people.
So too are the artist,
the lovecraftians, the hopeless.
They, meaning us, scatter outside
shelters.
We journey through a city
only stopping for the sunsets.
The neon lights become so dim
compared to the reflections
of water after rainy nights.
Our thoughts, ripple in the sidewalks,
reflecting
a sentimental rhythm,
a calm and beautiful sequence.
-V I L L A N U E V A
07.19.21
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