Saturday, June 28, 2014

Making Home (Emmie)

I hated this placeholder for home
and its harsh, artless streets,
tainted but still bare and
I listened in alleys and on highways
but all I heard were empty reverberations,
not even in cacophony
but in stale dissonance.
For years I waited
to hear more than the same lifeless noise.

But with time this city forced
a new image for itself,
now bound with memories
and more sentiment than substance.
Years can turn even a wasteland
picturesque with strained glamour,
and Saturday afternoon drives
through smokey air and past fading, painted walls
become enough
to declare vandals poets
and discord harmony.

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