Golden

The world becomes but still images, lacking clarity, paintings composed of blotches rather than brushstrokes. The startling features are the only that catch the eye, neon lights and acrobats. High heeled feet march along, creating, only when I am with you, African beats, of wild tribes that are freer than birds, stars and skies.

Streets are wider alongside a more populated people, a glass and then a bigger glass cracked to capacity, with your shoulder touching mine I sail by, golden and untouched.