I don't usually post things like this. But that's all based on insecurities which I need to shed. Well, which I need to try to shed. I wrote this a few months ago. It's not my favorite, but it's also a comfortable length and is more approachable than some of my other stuff. Here are the words if you want them:
In the shadow of that matte black hotel, which climbs thick-bricked and gold fretted heavily above the nearby buildings, is a park of well trimmed grass and trees.
They're all so tall, and thin, and intentional. The Midtown workers take their lunches here. And the tables are arragend like wholenotes, beats of music rythmically placed, a waltz maybe.
And down below the park, below the midday midtown shoe-in-grass lunch-dance, below the black-cold cast-iron-meshed tables and chairs placed in three-quarters time, for three dollar coffee breaks,
rests the archives of a library. The words of the past -- entombed, buried intentionally, trampled unknowingly. All in the shadow of a matte-black and gold hotel, under the accidental music of Manhattan footsteps.