Miryiana

Four walls make gray squares, where we hid
hands on each cemented slab,
where windows rested,
back when the sun was seen.
But then, then came the crack of iron words
as they broke on through the glass,
to strike upon your waiting brow
like the waiting warrior’s fist.
So the highrises become a beautiful trap
to hide an aching soul from the world.
To become who you would never be
if it hadn’t been for him.

So I stand in the rain
throwing stones at your door,
hoping to catch your attention
and break this Manhattan chill.