survive

Somehow seagulls still survive.
Stroll along the concrete paths
that weave dreams of laughter and sorrow awakening one from restless sleep.
Walk along the Thames,
and listen to the quiet of rain that slowly drizzles
across the diffused light of streetlamps;
monet in motion.
Afternoon ticker tape from now empty looming offices floats upon the wind covering gardens like snow.
You laugh at the thought of the word "ticker tape " that woke you from your dream.
The quiet fills your heart.
The sound of the rain calms your fears
and remembers the year that you were born.
The day's confusion of abstract numbers thrown on abstract floors in glass buildings melt away under the night-janitor's broom.
You stand in the presence of your own soul
and for now
all that is important is the rain that comforts your heart
and the seagulls that still survive.