A Sense of Solitude

I do not hear or see the same things that

You hear or see, nor do I expect you to understand my plight

Vriende Street was once a quiet, preserved lane resplendent

With firs, oaks and tall beauganvillas, branches whispering gently

In a soft breeze which merely echoes its approval of my arrival

nypd

 

It is now replaced with an ongoing rumble of traffic, heavy roars of

SUV’s, ominous, hollow echoes of Police service vehicles, to the accompaniment

Of the cocky irritating whistle of an alarm, wistfully making its

Presence felt, it disapproves of me.

 

 

 

 

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