Print Street Chronicle

The 20th hour is close at hand, 
The birds have all retreated to their nests, 
Another busy day bids the sun farewell, 
Turns in on itself a blanket of weariness. 
Tattooed branches sway in the dusty wind, 
Receiving aromas from the metropolitan shield. 
Pinwheels spin on the stormy fronts, 
Bound by electrical tape the lighting ignited. 
Time to close the books on another year, 
Time to carve each movement onto the spreadsheet, 
Statistical etchings pressed into the walls of history. 
 
A profound calming engulfs me, spun from 
Threads out of the achievements recorded. 
Letting the solstice of night take hold, 
I lay down on a mattress of data. 
As dark sets in, the seventh day looms upon me, 
Gathering all that is sacred in my scriptural salad. 
The sounds of my wife cooking, 
The percussion of stir fry in the kitchen 
Beats into me a rhythm of completeness, 
Conducted by the folds of her sweet red apron. 
Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose. 
But in the end we all win, for our losses 
Are gilded by the lessons we are meant to learn. 
 
So turn off the lights, rewind the clocks, 
Block out the sun and finish the reel. 
Close the door on your trivial problems, 
Cast them into the furnace of adulthood. 
Release your mind from these petty pursuits, 
Chime in the holiday with your greatest glee. 
The globe as come full circle, the moon has 
Exhausted her dreams, rolling out our recycled 
Thoughts re-branded, carried by gravity 
To the windscapes on her sister's cheeks, 
Spilling into our slumbering cities 
The surreal trials out on desolation row.