the trees, all surrounding
seems, at times,
a cemetery
as the ever tired ancient 
juvenile 
stamps the time, along
the dirt
someday might not be
so apart from.

yet, hark,
my guy,
the angry vehicular bellow,
followed
by yell, and
the steamed, cold streets
rich
in stink,
click, train, clack,
rank
with the sweetest 
indifference,
oh, these
garbage strewn roots,
all truths left
intentional,
forgot and unbegotten
the way serene
seeming, though,
unsubstantial, 
some echoes of 
youthful
originality, borrowed
by time. 

such symbols
succinct,
and sufficient regarding
passersby,
and
those eyes, did
they whisper,
or
has preoccupation made illusions
of me?