Young Street

Four tall magestic buildings stand alone,

out of sight. Out of my grasping touch.

The buildings: with a reflective glass so strong,

it is impossible to know what lurks beyond those panes.

They are the freedom of a kite,

with a scent of unexplained despair,

my fingertips clutch onto the strands of rope that are left trailing behind.

I wait for you on the corner,

Though its five years until we meet,

The phone box rings but silence answers

Four magestic buildings, stand tall and strong.

Cast by the mast of the riverboats song.

My anchor mentality stops me from strolling,

stops me from exploring what hides beneath that valley;

The buildings are so tall

not even the mountains of Alaska can compete

with their great decent of eternal loathing.

The pavement sparkles with desire,

My footsteps lead the way.

I climb to the highest of the architecture

almost reaching panes,

to look in, to please my eye;

I glance down, poised to jump, to fall or fly.

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