I watched time race across the starry heavens as angels traced its narrow wake. I ceded charge of all the moonbeams as they fell and rendered forth this scene. The errant watched the path of one as he traced his wife's long-lost footsteps. The angels saw the city moving, hoisting skyscrapers alongside vice.

The tinsel town was running ruin, as everywhere a neighbor stood, and yet no need for conversation, no need of well-intentioned impediments. The world will whisper words like widows every so often when it’s feeling sad. It heaves and crumbles under pressure, beneath the murmurs of walking man. The town will fill with every person, typified and set to print. It makes us laugh to hear them screaming, see their musings as they're went.

They dance about from store to shop front, to tenement and coffee house. They float from ancient libraries to future constructs all in tune, thumbing through the spans of time in every district, always, always render true.

Walking down the city streets, the boy will look to every other. In each he glimpses future and fulfillment, sees in them new paths and roads. And always, always is he disappointed, when all others cease to match his woes. The wife long-since departed left the world of mortal men, sought great pains in fiery enclosures, sought the sons she lost in him.

This man will walk forever, remembering the girl he sprouted, spurned. The one he always sought to entreat, the one whose pages he could never learn. And yet the man will live forever, when wife was cast out of the garden; moments of happiness had in bursts of spontaneity could hardly topple the guilty refuse, constructed carefully year by year.

Hands cast in pockets, scarves to hide the worst of scars. What lights illuminate the bystreets! questioning purpose of all men. He wants to kill the hurt within him, can't find a way to break from sin. The bars and drunkards of each era pass him by as he walks on, seeing women dancing round him, the deceitful share the bluest eyes.
Deeper deeper, angels' eyes distracted from him, refracts the light of long-lost pain, wishing mortality and intervention, dreary raindrops share disdain. Lighting up on memories and blowing whiffs of forgotten words, the wounds that ail depart us not, they cut the mouth and rend their spot.

The winters will always cause him hunger--after all, it was the locus of events. This city sprouted from a snowing; she died sick and wishing white. The world would acquiesce her calling, made its way for faint white figures, silhouettes on snowy hilltops, children running round the oak, dried and desiccated—winter’s rote.

The lights from buildings slowly dimming, the sounds beginning to soften now, the man will whimper words through windows, wanting only recompense. He sees his darling in each reflection, finds her in the rain and waste. Street flyers summon him to service, make him ponder what he had.

The night is lovely as rain receding runs its way back up to sky. The moonbeams focused on this moment fall away and back to night. The angels seem to recall they'd felt the fluid sweeping of a sorrow, strewn for them upon the air, chasing time with every motive, never once have felt despair.