He settled into a blurry sunrise
at the heel of a bottle,
an untamable tenor
bringing forth century old notes
while the earth rolls in chaos
and commuters dance on string.
The city is mad,
but packaged in poetry for me
and softly romantic,
proof that we dream and bleed simultaneously.
His guitar transforms the alley
into a concert hall,
where everything abandoned
now vibrates with life,
flourishing in his refrain,
I reach for my pen
as misfits twirl on concrete,
grit and joy.