Wandering on the once popular section of Monroe Ave.
Drifting like flakes in April.
The name, luring as the songs of Siren,
Enveloping me in a dreamy haze.
Roving aimlessly in and out of used bookstores
A pair of empty eyes, hollow hands
Vanishing among the empty shelves
Full of strangely familiar titles and names.
Straying into the purple fog,
Listening desperately for the
Silent pause in between pulses,
Waiting for the descending of