Metamorphosis

As I walk down city streets

a yellow rose bud sprouts

through the concrete.

My imaginative, blue inked eyes see

things transforming around me.

As glance up at the tall, dark buildings

they unfold into brooding towers

harboring captives instead of business people.

Towers mold into solemn steeples.

The metal on the building walls melt into forest trees

or friendly giants with grandeur like eyes.

humans stroll beneath as fragile as autumn leaves

of beech trees.

Cars drive by

but converge into flies and bees

Then shrink into rainbow trout down a river stream

with the sounds of shrill sirens

blaring down the road occasionally.

The train is just a train,

but its destination could be anywhere

to magical schools and across hills, through mountains,

above or beside a great, white foamed sea

maybe washed in hues of oranges, purples, reds, and pinks

plastered and placid like a painting.

Drills, saws, and Jackhammers pierce the air

sharp as swords,

but mystic as music dressed in the fabric

of rhythm like a rich man's wardrobe

that caresses my body

and takes it in a sweet jazzy waltz,

but still makes my mind summersault,

and my heart dance, flutter, and fly like birds.

Unlike the pigeons who are not flying, but stamping their feet.

I hear them humming to the hammering

like feisty, fat fairies

and morph into funny looking muses.

Then I look up at the clouded, oily sky

and swear I caught a sylph wing in my eye

and wonder if gods sit on some of the clouds

or when night rolls around

their eyes become the stars.

Not meeting their eyes, mine crash to the ground

where there's a dead mouse

curled up like a ball of red-brown yarn,

light brown fur seeming as pale as the concrete

in this vibrant, breathing city.