At a signal left behind

Screeching tires and smoking metal congregate at the helm of a manly fiasco.

Under the gray and atop the same, tiring issues of urban hues are allotted.

Twiddling pleasures and dwindling chunks of ecstasies are alone left, bragging at dusk each.

Every morn's pristine sleep slowly quails into the coal of the night.

At eye of this growling facade, I stare but bluntly still.

For before the streak of the drunken twilight arises; I stand there, I wait there.

There for the stagnant red of life and the signal to occupy the utmost green.

There amongst the innumerable mass of venerable and resolute visages in memory mine;

I fix in the strangest yet in the most peaceful fashion

My linear gaze upon a very singular face

As faint bricks of history, his features in the drowning sun beam with a frosty moss.

He is clad in most milky white yet catches not even a chunk of a parading man's acceptance.

An acknowledgement of a mobile organic if of a human not, still undeterred, unwanted

And probably un-wanting, he performs the most peculiar action. For of a foreign reason or desire,

He does place, upon a hollow piece of sylvan wood; his nimble fingers to construct a series.

Oh! In the tempest of groaning humanity such eloquent,

Feeble yet so crisp a tune he does produce, that the running light itself cries lilac in the sky.

This deep tone timid but sure, lends to the full ear a resonance of utter tranquility.

Above the wall 'mid the dins of lavish and screaming lashes,

Beyond the brink of an all-scrutinizing territory, there a realm thunders.

Of un-scaled creatures in equipoise gay and content, they! By their eye-less eyes see him!

But alas here, all but watch and at times with the swiftest piece of shown sympathy

Or hasty disgust leaves him astray with a souvenir of passion, in the tinkling of useless nickel.

I stand, sans any intent or mask, looking upon his predicament in foolish vision.

For days, weeks and time as ages, I look and I see him.

Resisting the humane melting waste, within my eyes a strange uneasiness shifting about

At that sight every nerve of me, almost vaults my fortress of logic and solitude.

Slowly but I reason; amid his tenacious growth and my blossoming sanctum of fidgety

Slowly I resign, to the days of barren helplessness, coated with the wilderness of this world.

But in my dark cradle a tiny brisk cry is heard in times often.

Whereupon, his stormy forehead and tired yet chivalrous eyes he throws at me,

And in my dark soul they plainly make and playfully prick, at the tenderness of a new sulking heart.

These are times, when the rusted veins joyfully rush

And beat up the roof of my skin erecting it as far as the hope itself extends.

For at this moment, I, in an earnest swallow the infinity, into the deepest corners of the buried mind.

Therein, I see a new shaft painted in the hues of bitter struggle and the very hope.

In it, I see men, women and babies small, shining alike, by the aura of each others' smile.

Them I in much awe see, doing things for the hearts not craving the eyes when done,

Nor I observe, any lump of results had but look over the deeds done.

I see pupil of this whole mother, arranging for their smaller ones and not merely providing for.