Ashlar

Sitting on a bench, among these modern grids,

It feels as if love and nature are caryatids.

The passing crowd lost in their apps,

My mind congregates within its own apse.

Withdrawn, trapped in an oubliette,

A heart imprisoned by lonely regret.

Eyes notice rays reflecting on lintel, truss, and vault;

And the time in reflection seems  to slow to a halt.

The light cast upon each modern frieze

Causes all sorrow, and remiss, to freeze.

Existence - the contraposition is so odd;

Odd how life, and death, fill each facade.

The architecture of the city is a sacred library, 

And each structure is a book.

The bricks and their course - the vocabulary;

To understand one need only read and look.

Artists, authors, and architects gone and unknown;

But their lives - alive on canvas, page and stone.

Each projecting ideas from their own dais;

Each various choice and each artistic bias.

No longer alone, my senses and thoughts peregrinate;

But on one conception I continue to ruminate:

Although we may no longer have the creator's rivers and streams,

We are surrounded by contemporary creators visions and dreams.

Composed by: A.D.