My creation is a flawless illusion of transcribed metaphors, those dipped in a platonic style of unknown happenings. It’s a creation that takes me to a pleasant place that I’ve never visited
but one where I’ve traveled a time or two in my dreams.
There, neon signs flash outside my smeared window, I hear the playful sounds of children,
and a cargo train blares and clacks along seemingly, loose tracks near my home. There, an old bicycle rack houses a 10-speed bike with flat tires and a worn seat, perhaps the owner retired it there out of convenience.
There, cars are parked, engines running, and the exhaust creates a fading fog as the tenderness of music flows outward, into the open air. There, a few old guys chat of yesterday. I can smell the stint of strong whisky and cigar smoke that surrounds exaggerated conversations.
I see overworked patrol officers resting, hoping for an evening of low activity as they exchange jokes with a small audience of young men. There, no heads are bowed towards cell phones, no dings of text messaging, just good ole fashion conversations.
I’m drawn to this illusive canvas, just as the free-flowing spirit of the birds that look upon the sprawling activity of the evening from the evergreen trees. This street is simple, its voice is divine, and it’s a place of serenity that I captured in time. My thoughts are free because it belongs to me.