Morning

Cold concrete holds the tomb of passions,
but the footsteps still echo like ghosts
for their vibrations never cease,
because in the middle of the chaos,
the loss of self and submission,
still the identity screams for its own sunrise.

Ornaments of prosperity
are strewn like litter on the streets,
this holiday of avarice
observed as a tradition
with suit and briefcase
and gowns tightly tailored to conform,
it’s all the diary of vaporous dreams
spent in mental soliloquies of questions
about the treasure and loves
that slipped through the fingers
before disappearing into the shadows.

Yet, inside their simmers hope
another morning will awaken the eagle inside,
time to soar and seek a nest
on top of a skyscraper
only seen in magazines.

Today will bring more crisis
another heart wrenching awakening
of being other than immortal.
Walking those pavements will allow
a chance to step on what has rule
over one’s fate,
by silent , reflective steps
one mind rises on a elevator
to stand on the top floor of any steeple.