Birth

Stroll along, my dear lady
through the dark city,
over the cracked old streets,
and sidewalks strewn with
cobblestone dreams, in the
stained glass windows, pretty
faces gaze out upon the
masses, gravely watchful,
piercing blue eyes, following
every step, as her delicate hands
busily tracing the tender flowers,
dried in the summer sun, down the lane,
a lustful illusion of divine whore,
spreading her wings across the sidewalk
marketplace, ferrying lost souls to
a lush hereafter with bottle of
moonshine and a kiss, liquor on her
breath, sending
away the doldrums with a
wink and a smile,
just in time for the evening storms
to wash away the cobwebs, sweet tendrils
hanging about the mind,
now a prison of imagination,
gracefully strolling along,
on the broken streets,
till the city swallows her
whole.