I wrote this poem the next day:
FOGGY WINDOWS
The rain comes down in waves of gray, washing the dirty buildings and turning the vacant, trash-laden lot into mire.
A tattered shell of a building stands mute in the wan early light, its windows boarded over, ashen droplets running down the seamed, tired, unprotected wood, undermining it's last yellow peeling remnants of defense.
As rain strikes at the rusty, corrugated tin roof, a tiny glow emerges in the surrounding darkened gloom and expands into a golden primordial egg. Within this warm glassine cocoon with foggy clouds of mist, and the scent of love coating it's translucent surface, there is movement and life; a micro-universe being carved out of the infinite depths of blackest black, making brightest day with a bridge made of rainbows.
by Sly
FOGGY WINDOWS
The rain comes down in waves of gray, washing the dirty buildings and turning the vacant, trash-laden lot into mire.
A tattered shell of a building stands mute in the wan early light, its windows boarded over, ashen droplets running down the seamed, tired, unprotected wood, undermining it's last yellow peeling remnants of defense.
As rain strikes at the rusty, corrugated tin roof, a tiny glow emerges in the surrounding darkened gloom and expands into a golden primordial egg. Within this warm glassine cocoon with foggy clouds of mist, and the scent of love coating it's translucent surface, there is movement and life; a micro-universe being carved out of the infinite depths of blackest black, making brightest day with a bridge made of rainbows.
by Sly