On nights like this, the city starts to loom:
It's tow'ring structures block the darken'd skies;
My cozy home becomes a lonely room;
The constant noise sounds not like but joy, but sighs;
Yearning eaves where bouncing boughs once stood
Line dirty streets where once were charming lanes;
My hands in pockets pressed, a coat, a hood,
Not lacking warmth but feeling chills the same;
Every block I pass feels longer still,
And every face I spy is turned from me;
The air is close with stench of urban swill
And every word I write seems heresy.
What else to do but laugh? I can't outrun!
Flashbacks to teenage angst are so much fun.