Wisdom of the Graying

The hum of the freeway,
the silent flesh of another day
shifting to gray.
It all becomes narrow,
an ancient corridor
where you sift through
the leftover murmurs
of some grand architecture.

Voices collect within
the window, and birds
flap eagerly across
the sun’s faded stare.
But nothing comes for you.
No dream or epiphany
rushes through your skin.
The weekend has shrunk
once again, and things are
still incomplete. Or unfound.
And the birds and voices
have already become
smaller than the past. And this
poem becomes the moment
because it can’t be anything
else or more, just as the sun
disappears, trapped
in its own glow.

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