Natural Progression

The days of the fall

Were these beautiful symphonies

Orchestrating gently the reason

In lethargic awakenings

Greeting the chilled but rising light

To thy glassy eyes

And world weary machinated motions

Creatures of habit stroked like regal dogs

Delegating their energies

To climb out of the slum

And into the city proper ’cross the great river gap

Bridging the suspension of its flow

Each day met with the question

What’s the point?

Each day moving forward

Driving the weathered machine

To the heart of American beauty

The stitches that closed the veil of class

Quite casual

Clothed the steady crawl of the mourning streets

In the relentless waves of necessity

Detailing the algorithm of consumer thought

In passing wayside distractions

And the singular swifts of pigeon flocks

Drafting the abstract of the grid

In thoughtless swathes of sky

Waxing ephemeral

Composing the negative space of perpetual rise

Always moving forward

A natural progression

The only constant in the capitalist experiment

And each morning she entered the vacuum of the current fashion

In the dramatic circulation of trends

Weaving the fabric of days to come

While he kept driving on

Crossing the further river gap

To the fringes of the machine’s cognizance

The implementation of its subconscious ends

In the automation of human processes

Reducing the measure of distraction

Masked as the liberating of innovation

A global movement to free your mind

From its enslavement at binary hands

Gripping his keystrokes in a streamlined legalese

Embedded with silenced poetic gesture

And incorporating the evolution of humanity

At the close of the world’s curtain

Upon which things shifted to the other side

To the silence of the Eastern shore

A reason unburdened by its linguistic permutations in history

He raced back to the swing of the Big Apple

Now the black heart of an evening Grace

A dark glass veneer

To masquerade the void of endless light

Wherein the aspirations of thy reflections were the black beasts

Bags in the wind on Fashion Ave

Watching the cars pass outside the temple

He sat in a moment of quiet

She left behind the vacuum

Pulled herself from the wall of the abyss

Having cleansed herself of the question

Ready to dream another night long

Let late come rest steal us in the sleep of stones

Cast in the forces of the world’s soul

Holding on persistent through the silent kisses
Every brush of the hand

A love that never questioned the source of its becoming

But poured forth in dreams and daily drummings

Sounding for our consciousness

The sweetest nothing of the All