They aren\'t very far,
Yet they can\'t be reached.
Nuances littered near them
With no difference to be seen.
In the languor of air,
Bitter, and grey,
Fogged and stale,
But breathing anyway -
Counting bricks along the road
Unable to tell it\'s being done;
They continue sitting there,
Drawing lines, while phantoms run.
Angled cuts pass them,
Little grooves in the misty rain.
Wailing unto the breeze
Until they fall, and go away.
Following becoming tiresome,
Some shifting, then rearranged;
The birth of an afternoon
Lined in the ashen May.
A tower bell clock beckons;
To whom, I do not know.
As it howls, ears attend,
They heed its call and disappear -
Toward silhouettes off in the fade
Of darkened bodies in rancor,
As though to spite the ever-waiting;
Curious visages maunder -
As if it was profession,
On time kept and observed;
And with nothing left to question,
Discerning the ache of evening young -
In monochromatic schemes and rhythm
Of that bell still-ringing, calling out
For someone listening, we wait -
Until then, in the refrain of analog.