On the side of a quiet New York street,
This composition is rendered;
Among the throngs of shuffling feet,
This dream develops unhindered.
Fantasies grow without a sound -
Limitless, beyond any imposed bounds.
The stanzas and lines compound
As the heart, almost inaudibly, pounds.
The sky of encroaching obsidian,
Is arriving fashionably late.
Thankfully, darkness has yet to set in;
While the rhymes duplicate.
Expression, digressions, and explanations;
All seem too deep, and unnecessarily complex.
“Le art, pour le art”, or creation for creations
Sake; this does not complicate, frustrate, or vex.
Evening wind, softly caresses and blows
Through deep green, and thick bushes.
With no greater secret to impart or expose,
Or deeper meaning, for why it pushes -
Much like this hollow rhythmic prose.
Composed By: Andrew Drucker
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